Harry Kellogg III - The Red Sky - The Second Battle of Britain

On another note, the spent projectiles from the same shell fired by the Spitfire that missed the Tu 6, went on to kill a cow eating quite contently in the middle of a field some distance away. The farmer’s wife was about to herd the cow into the barn and was about 2 meters away when the poor creature was struck. To this day the family living on the farm tells the story of expired cow and speculation abounds as to where the bullet came from. At every holiday family feast and reunion the story grows more and more complex and convoluted. As the old saying goes “truth is stranger than fiction” and none of the stories concocted on the farm is anywhere near as interesting as the truth. The spent projectile is in almost pristine condition and sits on this family’s fire place mantle as a memento of their close brush with death.

A poster appeared at the barracks “Future Airmen and Parachutists were invited to pull up stumps and build an aerodrome and hangers for gliders and planes.” “Well if they needed stumps pulled we would go after work and pull some stumps. To be honest flying had always been a dream and now maybe this poster would be my chance. I headed for the given address to sign up.

The next meeting I found out my fate was to fly gliders and not planes. I was very disappointed but determined to be the best glider pilot I could be so they had to let me fly a real plane. We took off from a high bank over the Moscow River and hovered. The gliders were launched in a very primitive way. The trainee pilot would be shot into the air by the rest of us like a sling shot. If you were lucky you could last for 2 to 3 minutes of gliding and then it was back to pulling on the elastic bands to shoot others into the sky. Every day that summer I would go to the bank of the river and sling others into the air for my chance to fly for 3 minutes. [5] Unfulfilled Promise: The Soviet Airborne Forces, 1928-1945By Leroy Thompson — Pg. 33

“In flying club we studied flight theory, aerial navigation, meteorology and the “Flight Operations Manual” for the U-2 trainer. We were sternly drilled that the “Flight Operations Manual” was written in blood and was not to be taken lightly. We learned the basics on a plane mounted on a pedestal, manipulating the levers and how the different parts of the plane worked. We also learned from the mechanics how the engine worked and how to repair it if need be.

The day of my first flight had come. “To your planes” the instructor ordered. One by one we took our turns for our first flight. When my turn came and after I was strapped in the instructor spoke to me through the speaking tube. I was instructed to hold the levers softly and memorize the movements. After the third turn the instructor shouted “steer the plane.” It was much unexpected and as I struggled with the pedals and the stick the machine would not obey my movements. It seemed like an eternity and I knew my flying days were numbered. I could not control that bucking beast. Besides that I was terrified.

The instructor took over, after it was apparent that I had failed, with not a word. After we had landed I expected to be thrown out of the program and was quite miserable looking I’m sure. He looked at me and said “no one succeeds on their first go”. It was a reprieve. I was saved. I lived to fly another day.

Training proceeded apace with us all getting our hours in now that the war was over and we had time to be properly trained. I was too young for the Great Patriotic War but I was just the right age for this new war of aggression and I was spurred on by the Amerikosi’s attempts at using their atomic bomb on Leningrad. My third day on the front I finally received my plane. It was not a high-speed fighter, nor a dive bomber, just a U-2. It was re-designated the Po-2 after its designer Polikarpov. But it was still the same old U-2 I had flown throughout my career. The same plane I had always flown. It had gained a new job and it would gain glory and earn the hatred of the enemy throughout the war.

The U-2 is something of an anomaly. It flies so slow that high speed fighters have a hard time hitting it as it bobs and weaves while transporting wounded men, dispatches, flying reconnaissance and dropping bombs at night. The U-2 earned its nickname, affectionately given, of the Duck. But it was frustrating to be shot at without being able to answer back. I was shot down over 2 times in 41 combat missions. I longed to have a real plane to fly. One that could give as good as it could take.

That was not to be my fate for another 2 months. I was stuck with my Duck and what a time we had. The U-2 pilots had special status. We were invaluable to the war effort and when we carried dispatches we were expected to fly in all kinds of weather and land on postage stamp clearings in our attempts to reach the intended recipient. In return we were afforded “all assistance necessary” in completing our duties. Everyone from Marshal to Private was supposed to aid us in our duty no matter what they were doing they were to come to our assistance. A dispatch sent by Duck was of utmost importance and under severe penalty everyone was to complete our mission. We has special orders signed by Stalin himself that under penalty of death we were to be assisted in our deliveries.

I have many a story to tell but I will tell just one. I was assigned to find a detachment of Katyushas who were to make a retrograde movement out of danger. No one could reach them by radio and the French were closing in around them without their knowledge because of the storm. All I had was a compass bearing and I took off with the orders tucked in my breast pocket. After 2 hours of flying blind the weather cleared and as I was searching at low level for the rocket unit when two Spitfires decided to have some fun. I zigged and zagged dipped and rolled and totally frustrated both of them. The U-2 is very nimble if you know what you are doing and I did know what I was doing. Finally they worked as a team and one machine gun bullet caught my left wing and that was enough. I was going down fast.

I managed to land somehow pulling up just at the right. The Brits we so mad that I did not crash in flames that they strafed me as I ran with cannon and machine gun fire from all their weapons on full. I dodge and fell down a couple of times and played dead but the moment when I thought they were gone and started to move and they came again. Can you imagine wasting all that ammo and time on one pilot? I guess I really frustrated them. Too bad there were no Soviet planes around to catch them low and slow and without munitions.