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

Finally they ran out of bullets and reluctantly flew off. I did get hit in my left shoulder and it hurt like crazy. Dazed, exhausted and hurting I found a nearby road. A command car came racing down the road and it was not going to stop. I pulled my pistol and fired a shot in the air. The car still careened by me and almost hit me as I dove into a ditch. I was bleeding into the puddle and as I tried to right myself I left a bright red pool of water. The car came to a sliding halt and a full Maior flew out of the back door in a rage and dragged me from the ditch and of course he dragged me to my feet by my injured arm. I writhed in pain as he screamed at me for using my pistol. Before I passed out I practically stuffed the order from Stalin into his mouth.

And this is where the power of one piece of paper signed by the right person can stop anyone in their tracks. That piece of paper saved me from a firing squad. That piece of paper made a General waiting in the car obey a lieutenants orders. Immediately I was taken to an aide station to bind my wounds. That piece of paper then had a very angry Maior deliver me to the unit with the dispatch. That paper made a Maior deliver me back to my unit before he could do anything else. That piece of paper made a Maior into a Penal Unit commander. That piece of paper got my trusty U-2 back.

As I said I have many more stories each as harrowing at that one. I flew 41 missions in my Duck and as I said survived 2 crashes. I am a very good mechanic and many times have fixed my own plane. I have often been asked why I didn’t become a mechanic instead of risking my life as a combat pilot. I witnessed the grief on many a mechanics face and the heart wrenching fear when his pilot did not come home or was late. The bond between his mechanic and a pilot is sometimes greater than between man and wife. The mechanic will wait well past the time that his pilot can possibly appear. Listening and peering into the night sky just hoping to catch a snippet of sound from a very familiar engine. Just a faint whisper. Anything to keep hope alive. No… I could not be a mechanic and wait. I would rather know my fate when it happens than to wait on the outcome of another’s.

There was lots of talk about the new planes entering the war from our side. We all longed to fly a new Yak, Petlyakov or Lavochikin. I wanted the plane that seemed like a flying torpedo with slightly swept back wings. It was a plane that was already a legend, a small mono plane of classic shape, one that swiftly flew just above the ground dealing death to our enemies. A plane that climbed like a hawk was maneuverable, with a good field of vision and was armored and flew straight when hands free, one that almost lands itself. In short I wanted a Sturmovik.

My request for transfer was finally accepted and I found my way in front of the Regimental Commander trying to be brave in the face of his questioning. “But do you know what a hellish job it is to attack ground targets? A Sturmovik has two cannons, two machine guns, two batteries of rockets, various bombs. Not every pilot can handle such a machine. Not everyone is capable of steering a flying tank, of orienteering himself in combat while hedge-hopping, bombing, shooting the cannons and machine guns, launching rockets at rapidly flashing targets, conducting group dog fights, sending and receiving orders by radio — all at the same time.”

“I’ve thought it over already and I understand everything, sir.”

Never was there a statement filled with such ignorance.

After what seemed like an eternity I was assigned to the 805th Ground Attack Regiment of the 230th Division.

“In three days we are heading to Toulouse… be ready.”

My training commander tried once more to convince me to stay up high with the fighter planes but I would have none of it. I wanted to be down near the ground dealing death to the enemies of the motherland. I wanted to be close in. To see their faces as I tore into them with cannon and rocket. No… ground attack was for me. I made myself a promise that no matter what I would not fire on anyone who was helpless. Too many times being chased by P51s and Spitfires while running from my damaged plane I supposed. No strafing women and children for me. But if you try and shoot me down, I will kill you where you stand. I have fulfilled that promise too many times to count. That is war.

I found out that the new Regiment I was joining had just lost 60% of its planes in the latest fighting over the Pyrenees Line. Even though our planes were armor plated they still were shot down in greater numbers than any other plane. Of course there were more of us by far as well. Stalin did love his Sturmoviks. We were given 2 days to learn the Sturmovik before our final exam. I was sent to the 3rd Squadron.

Finally we were assigned to UI1-2 or 2 seat trainer Sturmovik with dual controls. I couldn’t get my fill of it, such a fine machine with cannons, bomb bays, external racks for rockets and bombs. It was not a plane but a flying cruiser. Every vital piece was covered by armor. My instructor took me up and when we landed he said I was ready for solo flight. I protested that it was only my second flight but he insisted that I take it up again… and then again. On the third solo flight the engine sputtered and stalled… I was over a large lake and I could not swim. I now had a very heavy glider on my hands but my only thought was to get to dry land. My speed and altitude were falling very fast and I knew that I couldn’t make to the landing field. At least I would make it to land. Somehow I managed to come to a stop just before a very large ravine filled with skeletons of animals who had not seen the edge in time.

The training flights became more and more complex. We were shooting at white Xs on the ground. Bombing old trucks, dummy tanks and railroad cars exploded under our withering fire. Some of us more withering than others of course but all in all a good Squadron. The Squadron Lieutenant Putkin stated that whomever learned the fastest and shot the straightest would be his wingman. To become the wingman of and experienced combat leader, what more could we dream of. The American pigs knew how valuable the leaders of the Squadrons were. It was not easy to pick out targets in the bomb cratered moon scape and how to avoid the ack ack and screening fighters in order to drive home your attack. If the leader fell then the attack could often times not be carried out. In order to learn the craft of leader you had to be the wingman of a leader. A wingman repeated the maneuvers of his flight leader in order to survive. Most Sturmovik pilots died within their first 10 sorties because there was so much to learn while staying in formation. A good leader watched out for the entire flight as well as himself.

My comrade Valintine was sure to become the leader’s wingman when one day he confused his levers and retracted his landing gear while parked setting his plane down flat and creating ram horns with his prop blades. He had tears in his eyes but no one had to reprimand him or scold him. He was his worse critic. He was a very sad man from the beginning and later I found out why. His whole family was dying from tuberculosis while he was fighting for them in the only way he knew how.

The next day, my only thought was of my upcoming first combat flight in a Sturmovik. I was not scared. I was a Sturmovik pilot! There were five regiments of our 230th Ground Attack Aviation Division: four of ground attack and one fighter.

We were sitting in our planes waiting for the green flare. My mechanic asked one more time if there was anything he could do and I responded “No I need to be alone with my thoughts.” I thanked him and just as he had jumped off my plane the green flare shot into the air.

I was given the honor of being the wingman of the flight leader. During the flight I did my best to stay in formation. When he made a maneuver I followed. When he dived, I followed. When he shot, I shot. When he dropped his bombs I dropped mine yet after the fourth pass I lost him as well as the rest of the group. I turned into our territory and found myself witnessing a huge aerial fight with dozens of planes. Planes were falling from the skies, pilots hanging from parachutes and all landing in the hills.