The pitch of his voice increased as his fear grew, the ground rising to meet him almost hand in hand with the increase in volume.
Teeth clenched in a brave attempt to silence his external display, Istomin went for the touchdown.
The survivors of the 21st Guards Bomber Regiment watched as the ravaged aircraft almost seemed to kiss the runway, no noticeable change from being airborne to being on the ground.
Still it was moving too fast but the engine sounds were dropping off as the pilot did what he could.
In silence, they and the soviet ground crews watched as the pilot skilfully cajoled his aircraft into losing speed, keeping the starboard wing above the ground until the last moment.
Spectacularly, fate took a hand, bringing the ‘last moment’ forward as cannon shells, cooked by the heat, exploded sequentially, opening up the ravaged wing and dropping the Tupolev to the runway instantly.
Dragging to the right, ‘Tanya’ ploughed the grass with a shorn-off starboard wing, the fire all but gone as the wing separated, courtesy of the cannon shells.
All across the airfield, men were running to his aid, mostly carrying nothing but their hopes.
The port wheel strut surrendered to the increased strain, bringing the fuselage down level and increasing the drag.
The Tupolev came to a sudden halt, settling into a dignified repose, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and grass.
The second fire truck had left the previous crash site, the fire crew determined to do what they could for the brave air crew of the latest arrival.
Overtaking running men, the elderly vehicle closed quickly on the smoking ruin and crashed to a halt, the crew quickly running out hoses to quell the flames, and arming themselves with tools to pry and cut open whatever needed to be pried and cut open in order to get the crew out.
The fire fighters swarmed over the fuselage and inside, bringing out the gunners and navigator, laying them down gently and covering them with their jackets.
More personnel now arrived and set to with helping. Others, members of the 21st, lifted a jacket here and there, confirming the identity of a dead comrade.
A wave of laughter grew throughout the responders, causing anguish with the bomber crews, who sought out those responsible for the disrespect.
Intending to right the wrong, the survivors of the 21st could only add to the growing sounds of laughter as, one by one, they became aware of Istomin.
Carrying signs of his close encounter, the blackened Senior Lieutenant was sat on the steps of a nearby equipment hut, sharing a bottle of vodka with the two air force personnel who usually inhabited it.
All three men sat there quietly praising fate for her benevolence, two for having survived the death they anticipated as the aircraft bore inexorably down upon them, one for being inside the blazing coffin all the way to the end.
The pilot had no boots, his bare feet a contradictory pink set against the more common black and brown of his ensemble.
The trio bore more than a passing resemblance to the ‘three monkeys’ of old, especially as Istomin massaged his head in an effort to relieve the headache brought on by the tension of his experience.
The doctor who checked him shortly afterwards also humorously observed that the heavy machorka tobacco he had obtained from the ground crew, combined with the vodka they liberally imbibed, probably also contributed.
However, in seriousness, he plainly put the headache down to the five inch gash in the back of Istomin’s head, courtesy of the final lurch, the white of the skull plain for all to see before twenty-nine stitches pulled the flaps back together again.
The commander of the Donauworth airfield, a Colonel old enough to be his grandfather, wrote a report that would accompany him back to his base, once the transport arrived.
Two of the Tupolev’s had already flown on, the crashed aircraft cannibalised to get the other damaged aircraft back to their base.
Whilst Istomin waited for transport, he was accommodated in every way, the whole base treated him like a celebrity for his skill in landing the ravaged aircraft.
A liberated US army jeep was placed at his disposal and his first journey took him back to the equipment shed, where he found his new ‘friends’ and shared the same pleasures as before, but under more relaxed conditions.
Together, the three strolled towards the silent and cold ravaged metal that had once been the sleek Tupolev.
Curiosity took over, and they questioned the evidence of their eyes.
So, the counting started.
Istomin pulled rank, insisting that his total of three hundred and seven would be the official total of holes in his aircraft and his report, the two deferring to him with exaggerated gravity, but continuing to speak of two hundred and ninety-one as the definitive figure.
“Either way Comrades, the lady brought me home safely against the odds.”
A bottle did the rounds, each man toasting the fine aircraft in cherry brandy, although the two Air Force men confessed later that they celebrated her stopping powers in the slide more than her aerodynamic prowess.
“Perhaps, Comrade Starshy Leytenant, perhaps you should write and tell them, eh?”
Momentarily confused, Istomin screwed his face up.
The Serzhant passed over the bottle to the other man and moved to the silent airframe, tapping on each word as he spoke.
“For the Soviet liberation of Oryol from the Fascist hordes, as named by the People of Oryol.”
Istomin hadn’t flown out with the rest of his men because of his head injury, and the problems it had brought with it.
Those problems manifested themselves now as his brain could not comprehend what the Serzhant meant.
“Sir, the good people of Oryol bought and paid for that fine aircraft, and entrusted it to you.”
The fog in Istomin’s mind started to clear.
“Comrade Starshy Leytenant, their efforts gave you a good aircraft, one that brought you home when others wouldn’t have.”
“I understand, Comrade Voronov. You are right.”
The three wise monkeys shared another drink together, pausing only to pour a small amount over the aircraft’s unofficial name.
“To Tanya!”
And with the sound of the tribute ringing in their ears, the three said their goodbyes.
Casualties among the medical personnel and their wounded charges had been extreme, the targeted attack on the Castle wiping out the sick and the fit in equal measure.
‘Camerone’ suffered few serious casualties in the bombing attack, but five legionnaires were killed by a delayed explosion as they dug deep in the rubble to rescue trapped medical personnel.
The air-raid cut short the exchange between Knocke and Kowalski, the former moving off to attend to his units and organise the rescue efforts with no thought for the GRU officer.
Kowalski, satisfied he had got his message across, departed the area to report to his superiors.
It was sometime before Knocke had an opportunity to discuss the day’s events with De Montgomerie, and specifically report that the GRU probably had another source within the Legion Corps.
The location had proven to be perfect, the sole occupant of the island being a lighthouse keeper for the Canadian government, whose understood that his continued existence was all about his usefulness at keeping the constant white light alive in order to not attract undue attention.
The few families that had once lived on what was actually two small islands joined by a small spit of land had long departed, leaving behind buildings whose apparent dereliction was only cosmetic, the secret Soviet base now flourishing behind peeling paintwork and advancing flora.