The night was cold and clear. The stars were out in full-force and made men feel small and insignificant; which is the way it should be. As individuals we are insignificant. When gathered into armies we are far from insignificant, especially when it comes to the destruction that we can impose on each other and other living creatures. We don’t seem to bother rocks or the wind too much but the things that live on those rocks and fly on the wind are affected in extremely dramatic ways.
Take for example the owl getting into position to snare a mouse that he has just spotted. This mouse would have made a sumptuous meal for the night. Just as it was starting its dive, Sergei Slimac’s Tu-2’s starboard engine coughed to life and started the prop spinning at a high rate of speed. This caused the owl to flinch and alter its flight path, which made him miss his intended mark. The mouse dodged the proverbial bullet, or in this case the owl’s talon and lived another ten minutes.
All along the flight line other dramas were being played out. It was pitch-dark, mistakes were being made and corners were being cut. The goal was to launch all of the aviation regiment’s planes in record time regardless of what obstacles the night provided. Things were actually going quite well, all things considered. Only two major incidents so far, but they did not hamper the operation. The Tu-2’s of the 224th Attack Bomber Regiment maneuvered into place and then took off nose-to-tail, wing tip-to-wing tip, just like the commander had ordered. Three planes were already in the air when out of the blackness, death reigned.
The rumors were that it was only twelve night-flying British RAF Mosquitoes that caused so much death and destruction. It was suggested that having the marker lights on so that the Soviet medium bombers could take off and land, guided them into the perfect position to kill and maim so many on the ground and then hunt the three Tu-2’s that were airborne. Only one Soviet bomber escaped major damage or outright destruction and that was the one being serviced in the old barn, well away from the rest of the buildings.
It just happened to be the barn that the owl lived and slept in during the day. The barn was saved but the owl was not. He was torn to tiny pieces by a 20-mm shell on its way to a bomber attempting to take off. The collision managed to divert the speeding shell just enough to save the pilot from having his head taken off. It did take off his arm at the elbow. This forced him to lose control of the brakes and rudder and he veered to the right and into two other planes whose pilots watched in horror as their comrade slammed into them. All three crews died instantly and the fireball created many more aiming points and targets for the marauding Mosquitoes.
The anti-aircraft gun crews were finally able to respond but all the explosions and flashes from the devastated flight line had destroyed their night vision. One Mosquito decided to take another run at the airfield and he paid for this decision with his life. The Soviet-made 37-mm high-explosive round hit the plane five feet outboard on the port wing. Being so low and fast the pilot never stood a chance or possibly, had never comprehended the situation and slammed into the ground 248 yards from the south runway, killing the mouse that had earlier survived the misdirected owl’s razor-sharp claws.
And that was it. In ten minutes, twenty-four men had altered the lives of countless creatures of the night and of their fellow men. The Soviets lost all but one Tu-2 medium bomber of the 224th Attack Bomber Regiment along with 46 dead personnel. The RAF lost one Mosquito high-speed night-fighter/bomber, along with its crew and two others, on planes three and nine, were also critically wounded and did not make it back home to England alive.
As it happens, not one of the surviving personnel at the Soviet airbase in Calais made it back to their homes in the USSR either. That is, except the pilot whose head was saved by the owl. He actually survived and most of him was transported back home to the Ukraine. That is, of course, minus his lower arm. He lived to be 91 years old and had five children and twenty-three grandchildren, and it was never determined how many great-grandchildren, one of whom became a very famous climatologist, but that is a tale for another time.
We came in hot and heavy, flying at tree-top level. I don’t think they even looked up until the first few explosions started to register in their uncomprehending brains. I can’t say that I would have reacted any differently. Mosquito engines at full throttle, guns firing, rockets launching, then the explosions. Oh, what explosions they were! We must have hit something big.
Believe it or not I thought I caught a glimpse of an owl surrounded by explosions and chaos, dodging and weaving his way through the noise and the bright flashes that were once Soviet Tu-2 medium bombers. I lost sight of him almost right away but I’m pretty sure it was an owl just like we used to have out in the old barn; great creatures for keeping the mouse population in check. I bet he was surprised by all the mayhem around him.
As I climbed to gain a little altitude some tracers flashed by, but not from the ground. At first I thought it was friendly fire but then I saw the Tu-2’s rear gunner plugging away at us from way too far away. I guess he was pretty upset at what we had done to his buddies and was trying to take some revenge. I hit the right rudder and the nose came around and when the lead was right, I squeezed the trigger and was blinded by the flash. Even with those suppressors it still can be pretty bright in the pitch-black of the night.
Basically my two-second burst cut the bomber in half. The tail gunner was still firing as he plunged out of sight. I guess he was so pissed, or scared, that he just couldn’t think of anything else to do; even as he spiraled through the air, separated from the rest of the aircraft. It didn’t take him long to hit the ground. There was not much of an explosion because there was not much fuel in the back end. The front half made quite a dent and lit up nicely.
Against the Skipper’s explicit orders, Wilkins in Number 4 went back for another pass; this time some gunner with a 37-mm had either been ready for him or just got in a lucky shot. I caught a glimpse of him going down as the radar picked up a blip a little over a mile to our south. I notified the Old Man and he sent out Reynolds and Hardt, in numbers 5 and 6, to track it down. Minutes later the sky was lit up by a ball of flame that just seconds ago was a perfectly good Tu-2.
What I want to know is why the Reds were messing about at night with the runway lights on? It was obvious that they were not night-fighters just regular schlep bombers. What the hell were they taking off for a full three hours before dawn? I sure hope the Skipper remembers to tell someone about this. It certainly made it easy for us but why would they do that?
The end results are that we lost one and pretty much wiped out that entire regiment and its accompanying support personnel. Not much will be taking off from that field for a while. I would say that it was a resounding success.
Hopefully headquarters will authorize more of these raids. I mean, if Ivan is going to keep the lights on for us it would be rude of us not to drop in. Leaving the porch lights on is always an invitation, especially during times of war.