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View Full Version : Story written for Kootenai: Destruction, the name of a 37mm gun.



PBNA-Boosher
01-15-2005, 04:46 PM
Well Kootenai, you asked for it, here it is:
_____________________________________________

D@mn, what a sobering day. Our CO won't let us have our weekly supply of Vodka until we bring in more kill confirmations. Hell, I barely ever fly sober! I haven't gotten a kill all week! It must be these **** new flight schedules they've given us. Before now our squadron had been training in Yak-9D's and Yak-1b's. For longer flights we would use the D model, but for regular air superiority or bridge defence the 1B was a haughty aircraft. As always I pinned the photo of my girl to the instrument panel. Nothing really ever happened between us, I just asked her if I could have her picture, to pin on the dashboard of my plane.... She gave me a nice photograph, exactly what I was expecting. I think her father had it taken in the park. It was of her sitting on a bench looking out of the picture, she had a book across her lap. She was wearing an incredible black dress. Central park was very nice this time of year, the snows glistened over the trees and the ducks weren't sh!tting in the ponds anymore. We had known each other in High School, but then the war started and I left two weeks after we graduated. As I sauntered over to the new Yak I wondered if she loved me....

Joining the army in late December 41 had turned out to be a giant mistake. I think I should have waited a year. Due to the fact that I already had a private pilot's license (my dad was a crop duster in upstate New York) They immediately let me solo in their BT-13's. Gradually I moved up the lines until, after a near death accident in the T-6, (the d@mn plexiglass shattered and cut my throat, not deeply, but enough to put me out of action for a few weeks) I was placed into the cockpit of an old, battered P-40C. All of the new airplanes were going to the front. I wanted to fly high performance planes, something that could catch your eye... you know? So one day I was on leave in Rome, Georgia after landing in Fort Bennings for additional chute training with the guys, when an advertisement on the wall of a Jewish deli caught my eye. "Ally with Europe, give Stalin and Churchill a fighting chance!" It was a cool poster, I guess, it had a few P-40's and Spitfires, but something else on the poster caught my eye... I went into the store and asked about the poster. As it turns out the grocer had just moved from Russia, he wouldn't tell me why, only that he had "gotten out in time." I asked him about the strange looking plane under the Soviet Flag. "Oh!" He said with excitement, "I used to work in the Yakovlev Bureau, that's a Yak-1. Give me one minute!" And with that he ran into the back of the store, leaving me in my army uniform standing by the salamis hanging from the ceiling. One minute later he appeared from the rear of the store with several photographs. "This is a Yak-1!" he said to me with a fire in his eyes, "It will win the war for the Motherland, no?" I fell in love immediately. The plane was everything my P-40 was, but sleeker. It turned better, had slimmer engine, was lighter, and above all, looked like it could kill. The Russian kept talking about an armament of two 7.92mm ShKaS machine guns and a 20mm ShVaK cannon, whatever they were. I just couldn't get over how incredible and fast it looked. I'd made up my mind....

So I skipped "chute" training at Fort Bennings and hopped my P-40 back to New York City for a few days before I could catch a C-47 transport over to Alaska, then finally into Siberia. I had to be stealthy about it, the Air Force would consider me a deserter and I'dve gotten heavy punishment if I was caught. Luckily, I was able to lay low and got to a US lend-lease airbase in Russia close to April, 1942. I sent a letter home to my parents and another one to "my girl" telling them that I'd be in Russia on duty. Then I hopped on board the transport plane bound for the Urals and what the pilots were calling "Tank-o-grad."

It was close to a nine hour flight before we got there, but it was well worth it. Keeping in my USAAC uniform I found a nearby VVS office and asked if I could transfer services. The guy behind the desk looked at me as if I were crazy, but shuffled some papers my way. In accented English, he said, "You can get in easy, getting out's the hard part."

From July, 1942 and onward I was flying my beautiful new Yak-1B fighter. They stuck me with a most interesting group, the 586th IAP. There were 3 squadrons of aircraft, and while one was made of men, two were made entirely of women! After a while, (actually, from taking warning from the other male pilots) I learned not to tangle with these women, but some of us became friends.

But anyway, back to December '43. These new Yaks, the 9T, were an interesting piece of work. Most of the construction was the same as my Yak-9D, but instead of the 20mm ShVaK cannon which I had grown to love so much, it was replaced with a 37mm NS cannon. We still had the same 12.7mm UBS machine gun. The UBS was well and good, but I wish I had one more. Compared to some of these other Soviet pilots my aim is abysmal, and they always laugh at me about it. The newest joke is that when I'm calibrating my guns, I still miss the target. But hey, I just curse at them a few times in English, and they love it. Pretty soon I had them saying f*ck you to the CO. But since our CO didn't speak English, she'd laugh too. On the whole I thought it was pretty funny. It had become the common salute now. Climbing onto the wing of this new Yak-9T, I made sure that everything looked right from the outside. My mechanic was attaching the electrical heat up to the plane's engine to warm it. I smiled at him and he gave me a wave. I noticed he had taken the time to paint "my girl's" name. In bright yellow paint, in cursive English letters, "Jillexissanah" was written just below the exausts on the nose. Stepping into the cockpit and sitting down I strapped myself in and I unlocked and checked my controls and instruments after flipping on the magnetos.

With a good "f*ck you" from my mechanic, (I just assume it means, 'Good to go!') I pushed the starter and watched as the prop began to sputter and turn. The engine coughed and died. Adding a bit more fuel to the mixture and cranking the throttle to pump fuel into the M-105PF engine, I pushed the starter again. After turning over a few times I heard a dull boom from the exaust vents and saw the prop spinning nicely. It was going to be a solo recon flight. There were a lot of other planes in the air, but I had no specific target.

I snaked my way down the taxiway onto the snow and ice covered airstrip and turned the plane to face down the runway. I moved foward a tiny bit to straighten the tailwheel and locked it into place. Several of the girls looked over from their dugouts at the new plane taking off. One or two of them waved me off for good luck. I rolled the canopy shut, threw the mixture and prop pitch to full, opened the radiator, pulled down 20 degrees of flaps, and rammed the throttle full ahead! The new contraption flew just as easily and smoothly as my old bird. The P-40 could not compare save in roll rate. As I watched my vertical speed indicator go into the positive range from the zero mark I raised the landing gear and pulled out ten degrees of flaps.

The M-105PF engine pulled me higher and higher. There was no comparison. Winter in Russia was so much more beautiful than winter in New York. The amount of snow, the way it coated the landscape, the way everything froze, even the biggest lakes and rivers, like the Volga, was just so scenic. It was a short twenty-five kilometer flight from the airstrip to the front lines, and by the time I'd crossed them I found myself at 3500 meters, flaps up, at 380 kilometers per hour. I hoped that there would be no combat today, but just to be ready I pulled the two gun charging handles, one for the NS and one for the UBS. I did two 90 degree clearing turns and pulled out the map. I figured I was over the city of Leninsk by this point. within 30 more kilometers I would be in range of enemy flak.

Putting my map back into the canvas slot I'd made for it down by my right knee, I accidentally kicked my rudder pedal too hard and the plane veered off toward the right. Something caught my eye, low, over the lake on the map in sector N10. Even though this Yak had a fairly good lend-lease radio, I decided to hold my transmission and see what it was for myself. Diving down to 2100 meters I identified blue tracers. "Blue tracers?" I wondered... "We don't use blue...." It had to be either a Romanian or German plane. I couldn't see any other explanation for it. I dove down sharply over the tracers and discovered, to my horror, that I had just entered into the middle of a furball of six Fascist Bf-109's and two Bf-110's! "Sh*t!" I shouted into the radio. "using what little Russian I knew I exclaimed while speaking into my microphone, "Bandits all over me, sector N10!" All I got was static back on the line. I got no response. I tried again... nothing. "D@mn mechanics!" I shouted and pulled a hard G turn to get out of the fight, but it was too late, the Germans had seen my white plane with its big red star glistening in the early afternoon sunlight and started chasing me instead of the GAZ jeeps and ZIS-5 trucks traveling along the road to Stalingrad.

"Sh*t! I need help!" I shouted again over the radio, climbing desperately as I tried to escape from the climbing 109's and 110's. It was to no avail. Kicking my rudder hard to the left I looked behind me. All eight planes were on my tail. Using my superior maneuverability at my lower speed I threw in 10 degrees of flaps and flew right around the chasing fighters. I took out the flaps and circled around to the 109. The last plane in the chasing formation was barely keeping up, he looked like he'd taken a few potshots in his oil cooler from ground fire. Getting up very close to him, before his friends could alert him on the radio, I let loose with the 37mm NS cannon. The plane shook violently and vibrated hard as I held down the trigger for 1/2 a second. I almost pissed my pants when I was the one doing the firing!

"What type of f*cking plane did you give me!" I shouted into the radio! The 109, alerted by the tracers to my presence, pulled a heavy barrel roll which I couldn't follow. I pulled hard to the right and left, scissoring with the guy. They were all over me! Adding the ten degrees of flaps again I pulled away from them in the turn. None of them had taken a shot at me yet. "These guys must be good..." My mind raced as I tried to find ways to get out of the situation. The 109's were faster than me, I knew I couldn't run away, but I couldn't fight my way out, and I was getting tired. Every evasive maneuver caused me to start to black out, I couldn't last for much longer under their pressure.... Pulling a hard left turn now, I was able to throw off three of the six 109's and quite by accident, I found myself behind a Bf-110. Swearing never to make the mistake of using the 37mm gun first again, I let loose with a long, 2 second burst from the UBS 12.7mm gun. The hits on the 110 were thrilling! I saw white flashes as each tracer round hit, I swear I saw a few hit the cockpit, but I had hesitated too long. A long line of white tracers squirted back at me.

"What the hell?" But then I realized, "BOOSHER! You stupid prat! 110's have rear gunners!" Diving down to get out of his firing arc, I pulled out my 10 degrees of flaps and held the throttle at full. Without even bothering to think I got as close as I safely could to the frantically maneuvering Bf-110 fighter-bomber. I had no choice, it was now or never. Hitting the second trigger on my stick, I felt the plane shudder violently again as the 37mm cannon let loose it's tiger clawing rounds. I was so close to the 110 I felt the explosion from inside the plane. Shrapnel went everywhere, there was blood on the cockpit windows of the 110, the engines were leaking oil, and I swear there was a 5' by 5' hole in its right wing.

"Holy ****...." I exclaimed, watching the 110 stagger away from me, barely in control. I tried to follow it, but tracers sprayed from behind me reminded me I was not alone. I pulled around again, facing the 110, trying to hit it again with the firepower of the 37mm, but the rounds had the trajectory of a grapefruit catapult. I couldn't hit anything unless I was right behind it, and even then it was tough to aim! I tried using the UBS but the gun had no effect, the bullets kept flying through the 5' by 5' hole that the 37mm gun had made in the 110's right wing.

And then I felt it hit. Something shook the Yak madly and I heard a whip cracking in my plane. I felt a heavy blow to my legs and they started to leak blood into my flying suit. Seconds later I realized that my plane wasn't responding to my controls. The control cables, strung tight to the stick, must have snapped loose due to enemy fire. My legs were in horrible pain, there were deep gashes in the flight suit, and I couldn't maneuver the plane save with my throttle and rudders.

"MAYDAY!" I screamed into my radio, hoping someone out there was listening... The ground was rushing up at my beloved new Yak as I tried desperately to pull the wings level with the ground. I felt a huge CRUNCH... the plane came to a stop, the cockpit now billowing with smoke. Coughing hard like a ten year old with tuberculosis, I took my last gasps of air, and saw the picture of "my girl," sitting, waiting for me on that park bench that now seemed ever so far away.... Everything went black.

I didn't hear the crowbar smashing through the canopy, nor did I feel the hands of twenty Russian combat marines pulling me out of my burning Yak. I didn't feel the doctors stitching my legs back together, nor the nurses putting bandages on my head and plaster casts on my shattered upper limbs. When I next awoke, I was back in the dugout, and Tamara Pamyantkh, CO of the 586th, was standing over me. "F*ck you." She said to me, "You lost me that new d@mn airplane!"
But she couldn't have said it... she didn't speak English, did she? "You can talk?" I asked, groggily, dimly aware of the stupidity of the words I had just uttered. She smiled at me. "Drink your vodka." She placed the bottle of liquor on the empty ammo crate I used as a night table in my dugout. "Get some rest, we're going to need you again in the next few months, when everything of yours heals. I'll send in one of the girls to check on you every few hours." She took a few steps toward the exit of the tent before she hesitated and turned around. She pulled an envelope and a photograph out of her pocket. "This came for you in the mail the day after you were shot down, as well as a recall order to the U.S. Army Air Corps, but we burned that." She placed the envelope on the night table beside the Vodka bottle. "It seems you have a girl that loves you back home, no? This letter smells nice. I'll send Yekaterina to read it to you later, she can read and speak English well enough. Za Rodinu, Lieutenant." And with that she left the tent. I turned my head slightly to see the photograph. I was conscious just long enough to read the words written on it in ink: "To Charlie, Love Jilly."

PBNA-Boosher
01-15-2005, 04:46 PM
Well Kootenai, you asked for it, here it is:
_____________________________________________

D@mn, what a sobering day. Our CO won't let us have our weekly supply of Vodka until we bring in more kill confirmations. Hell, I barely ever fly sober! I haven't gotten a kill all week! It must be these **** new flight schedules they've given us. Before now our squadron had been training in Yak-9D's and Yak-1b's. For longer flights we would use the D model, but for regular air superiority or bridge defence the 1B was a haughty aircraft. As always I pinned the photo of my girl to the instrument panel. Nothing really ever happened between us, I just asked her if I could have her picture, to pin on the dashboard of my plane.... She gave me a nice photograph, exactly what I was expecting. I think her father had it taken in the park. It was of her sitting on a bench looking out of the picture, she had a book across her lap. She was wearing an incredible black dress. Central park was very nice this time of year, the snows glistened over the trees and the ducks weren't sh!tting in the ponds anymore. We had known each other in High School, but then the war started and I left two weeks after we graduated. As I sauntered over to the new Yak I wondered if she loved me....

Joining the army in late December 41 had turned out to be a giant mistake. I think I should have waited a year. Due to the fact that I already had a private pilot's license (my dad was a crop duster in upstate New York) They immediately let me solo in their BT-13's. Gradually I moved up the lines until, after a near death accident in the T-6, (the d@mn plexiglass shattered and cut my throat, not deeply, but enough to put me out of action for a few weeks) I was placed into the cockpit of an old, battered P-40C. All of the new airplanes were going to the front. I wanted to fly high performance planes, something that could catch your eye... you know? So one day I was on leave in Rome, Georgia after landing in Fort Bennings for additional chute training with the guys, when an advertisement on the wall of a Jewish deli caught my eye. "Ally with Europe, give Stalin and Churchill a fighting chance!" It was a cool poster, I guess, it had a few P-40's and Spitfires, but something else on the poster caught my eye... I went into the store and asked about the poster. As it turns out the grocer had just moved from Russia, he wouldn't tell me why, only that he had "gotten out in time." I asked him about the strange looking plane under the Soviet Flag. "Oh!" He said with excitement, "I used to work in the Yakovlev Bureau, that's a Yak-1. Give me one minute!" And with that he ran into the back of the store, leaving me in my army uniform standing by the salamis hanging from the ceiling. One minute later he appeared from the rear of the store with several photographs. "This is a Yak-1!" he said to me with a fire in his eyes, "It will win the war for the Motherland, no?" I fell in love immediately. The plane was everything my P-40 was, but sleeker. It turned better, had slimmer engine, was lighter, and above all, looked like it could kill. The Russian kept talking about an armament of two 7.92mm ShKaS machine guns and a 20mm ShVaK cannon, whatever they were. I just couldn't get over how incredible and fast it looked. I'd made up my mind....

So I skipped "chute" training at Fort Bennings and hopped my P-40 back to New York City for a few days before I could catch a C-47 transport over to Alaska, then finally into Siberia. I had to be stealthy about it, the Air Force would consider me a deserter and I'dve gotten heavy punishment if I was caught. Luckily, I was able to lay low and got to a US lend-lease airbase in Russia close to April, 1942. I sent a letter home to my parents and another one to "my girl" telling them that I'd be in Russia on duty. Then I hopped on board the transport plane bound for the Urals and what the pilots were calling "Tank-o-grad."

It was close to a nine hour flight before we got there, but it was well worth it. Keeping in my USAAC uniform I found a nearby VVS office and asked if I could transfer services. The guy behind the desk looked at me as if I were crazy, but shuffled some papers my way. In accented English, he said, "You can get in easy, getting out's the hard part."

From July, 1942 and onward I was flying my beautiful new Yak-1B fighter. They stuck me with a most interesting group, the 586th IAP. There were 3 squadrons of aircraft, and while one was made of men, two were made entirely of women! After a while, (actually, from taking warning from the other male pilots) I learned not to tangle with these women, but some of us became friends.

But anyway, back to December '43. These new Yaks, the 9T, were an interesting piece of work. Most of the construction was the same as my Yak-9D, but instead of the 20mm ShVaK cannon which I had grown to love so much, it was replaced with a 37mm NS cannon. We still had the same 12.7mm UBS machine gun. The UBS was well and good, but I wish I had one more. Compared to some of these other Soviet pilots my aim is abysmal, and they always laugh at me about it. The newest joke is that when I'm calibrating my guns, I still miss the target. But hey, I just curse at them a few times in English, and they love it. Pretty soon I had them saying f*ck you to the CO. But since our CO didn't speak English, she'd laugh too. On the whole I thought it was pretty funny. It had become the common salute now. Climbing onto the wing of this new Yak-9T, I made sure that everything looked right from the outside. My mechanic was attaching the electrical heat up to the plane's engine to warm it. I smiled at him and he gave me a wave. I noticed he had taken the time to paint "my girl's" name. In bright yellow paint, in cursive English letters, "Jillexissanah" was written just below the exausts on the nose. Stepping into the cockpit and sitting down I strapped myself in and I unlocked and checked my controls and instruments after flipping on the magnetos.

With a good "f*ck you" from my mechanic, (I just assume it means, 'Good to go!') I pushed the starter and watched as the prop began to sputter and turn. The engine coughed and died. Adding a bit more fuel to the mixture and cranking the throttle to pump fuel into the M-105PF engine, I pushed the starter again. After turning over a few times I heard a dull boom from the exaust vents and saw the prop spinning nicely. It was going to be a solo recon flight. There were a lot of other planes in the air, but I had no specific target.

I snaked my way down the taxiway onto the snow and ice covered airstrip and turned the plane to face down the runway. I moved foward a tiny bit to straighten the tailwheel and locked it into place. Several of the girls looked over from their dugouts at the new plane taking off. One or two of them waved me off for good luck. I rolled the canopy shut, threw the mixture and prop pitch to full, opened the radiator, pulled down 20 degrees of flaps, and rammed the throttle full ahead! The new contraption flew just as easily and smoothly as my old bird. The P-40 could not compare save in roll rate. As I watched my vertical speed indicator go into the positive range from the zero mark I raised the landing gear and pulled out ten degrees of flaps.

The M-105PF engine pulled me higher and higher. There was no comparison. Winter in Russia was so much more beautiful than winter in New York. The amount of snow, the way it coated the landscape, the way everything froze, even the biggest lakes and rivers, like the Volga, was just so scenic. It was a short twenty-five kilometer flight from the airstrip to the front lines, and by the time I'd crossed them I found myself at 3500 meters, flaps up, at 380 kilometers per hour. I hoped that there would be no combat today, but just to be ready I pulled the two gun charging handles, one for the NS and one for the UBS. I did two 90 degree clearing turns and pulled out the map. I figured I was over the city of Leninsk by this point. within 30 more kilometers I would be in range of enemy flak.

Putting my map back into the canvas slot I'd made for it down by my right knee, I accidentally kicked my rudder pedal too hard and the plane veered off toward the right. Something caught my eye, low, over the lake on the map in sector N10. Even though this Yak had a fairly good lend-lease radio, I decided to hold my transmission and see what it was for myself. Diving down to 2100 meters I identified blue tracers. "Blue tracers?" I wondered... "We don't use blue...." It had to be either a Romanian or German plane. I couldn't see any other explanation for it. I dove down sharply over the tracers and discovered, to my horror, that I had just entered into the middle of a furball of six Fascist Bf-109's and two Bf-110's! "Sh*t!" I shouted into the radio. "using what little Russian I knew I exclaimed while speaking into my microphone, "Bandits all over me, sector N10!" All I got was static back on the line. I got no response. I tried again... nothing. "D@mn mechanics!" I shouted and pulled a hard G turn to get out of the fight, but it was too late, the Germans had seen my white plane with its big red star glistening in the early afternoon sunlight and started chasing me instead of the GAZ jeeps and ZIS-5 trucks traveling along the road to Stalingrad.

"Sh*t! I need help!" I shouted again over the radio, climbing desperately as I tried to escape from the climbing 109's and 110's. It was to no avail. Kicking my rudder hard to the left I looked behind me. All eight planes were on my tail. Using my superior maneuverability at my lower speed I threw in 10 degrees of flaps and flew right around the chasing fighters. I took out the flaps and circled around to the 109. The last plane in the chasing formation was barely keeping up, he looked like he'd taken a few potshots in his oil cooler from ground fire. Getting up very close to him, before his friends could alert him on the radio, I let loose with the 37mm NS cannon. The plane shook violently and vibrated hard as I held down the trigger for 1/2 a second. I almost pissed my pants when I was the one doing the firing!

"What type of f*cking plane did you give me!" I shouted into the radio! The 109, alerted by the tracers to my presence, pulled a heavy barrel roll which I couldn't follow. I pulled hard to the right and left, scissoring with the guy. They were all over me! Adding the ten degrees of flaps again I pulled away from them in the turn. None of them had taken a shot at me yet. "These guys must be good..." My mind raced as I tried to find ways to get out of the situation. The 109's were faster than me, I knew I couldn't run away, but I couldn't fight my way out, and I was getting tired. Every evasive maneuver caused me to start to black out, I couldn't last for much longer under their pressure.... Pulling a hard left turn now, I was able to throw off three of the six 109's and quite by accident, I found myself behind a Bf-110. Swearing never to make the mistake of using the 37mm gun first again, I let loose with a long, 2 second burst from the UBS 12.7mm gun. The hits on the 110 were thrilling! I saw white flashes as each tracer round hit, I swear I saw a few hit the cockpit, but I had hesitated too long. A long line of white tracers squirted back at me.

"What the hell?" But then I realized, "BOOSHER! You stupid prat! 110's have rear gunners!" Diving down to get out of his firing arc, I pulled out my 10 degrees of flaps and held the throttle at full. Without even bothering to think I got as close as I safely could to the frantically maneuvering Bf-110 fighter-bomber. I had no choice, it was now or never. Hitting the second trigger on my stick, I felt the plane shudder violently again as the 37mm cannon let loose it's tiger clawing rounds. I was so close to the 110 I felt the explosion from inside the plane. Shrapnel went everywhere, there was blood on the cockpit windows of the 110, the engines were leaking oil, and I swear there was a 5' by 5' hole in its right wing.

"Holy ****...." I exclaimed, watching the 110 stagger away from me, barely in control. I tried to follow it, but tracers sprayed from behind me reminded me I was not alone. I pulled around again, facing the 110, trying to hit it again with the firepower of the 37mm, but the rounds had the trajectory of a grapefruit catapult. I couldn't hit anything unless I was right behind it, and even then it was tough to aim! I tried using the UBS but the gun had no effect, the bullets kept flying through the 5' by 5' hole that the 37mm gun had made in the 110's right wing.

And then I felt it hit. Something shook the Yak madly and I heard a whip cracking in my plane. I felt a heavy blow to my legs and they started to leak blood into my flying suit. Seconds later I realized that my plane wasn't responding to my controls. The control cables, strung tight to the stick, must have snapped loose due to enemy fire. My legs were in horrible pain, there were deep gashes in the flight suit, and I couldn't maneuver the plane save with my throttle and rudders.

"MAYDAY!" I screamed into my radio, hoping someone out there was listening... The ground was rushing up at my beloved new Yak as I tried desperately to pull the wings level with the ground. I felt a huge CRUNCH... the plane came to a stop, the cockpit now billowing with smoke. Coughing hard like a ten year old with tuberculosis, I took my last gasps of air, and saw the picture of "my girl," sitting, waiting for me on that park bench that now seemed ever so far away.... Everything went black.

I didn't hear the crowbar smashing through the canopy, nor did I feel the hands of twenty Russian combat marines pulling me out of my burning Yak. I didn't feel the doctors stitching my legs back together, nor the nurses putting bandages on my head and plaster casts on my shattered upper limbs. When I next awoke, I was back in the dugout, and Tamara Pamyantkh, CO of the 586th, was standing over me. "F*ck you." She said to me, "You lost me that new d@mn airplane!"
But she couldn't have said it... she didn't speak English, did she? "You can talk?" I asked, groggily, dimly aware of the stupidity of the words I had just uttered. She smiled at me. "Drink your vodka." She placed the bottle of liquor on the empty ammo crate I used as a night table in my dugout. "Get some rest, we're going to need you again in the next few months, when everything of yours heals. I'll send in one of the girls to check on you every few hours." She took a few steps toward the exit of the tent before she hesitated and turned around. She pulled an envelope and a photograph out of her pocket. "This came for you in the mail the day after you were shot down, as well as a recall order to the U.S. Army Air Corps, but we burned that." She placed the envelope on the night table beside the Vodka bottle. "It seems you have a girl that loves you back home, no? This letter smells nice. I'll send Yekaterina to read it to you later, she can read and speak English well enough. Za Rodinu, Lieutenant." And with that she left the tent. I turned my head slightly to see the photograph. I was conscious just long enough to read the words written on it in ink: "To Charlie, Love Jilly."

PBNA-Boosher
01-15-2005, 10:38 PM
BUMP!

Cajun76
01-15-2005, 11:15 PM
Great story, Boosh. Did you find it doing your research for those women Russian pilots? I agree with him, btw. Give me a ShVaK over those one hit pop guns anyday. http://forums.ubi.com/images/smilies/16x16_smiley-very-happy.gif

Freycinet
01-16-2005, 12:31 AM
fine writing boosher, thx!

I really think you should post the story with more "carriage returns" and empty lines between segments, though. It looks very daunting with a huge block of text like that. Just would be nicer from areadability standpoint.

TheGozr
01-16-2005, 12:36 AM
Right on http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

PBNA-Boosher
01-16-2005, 05:22 AM
Rgr that. Actually the story is completely fictional, with some historical elements.

Tamara Pamyantkh WAS the CO of the 586 IAP at one time
Of the 3 squadrons, two were made of women and one was made of men.

Everything else is made up. I'll make some separations in the paragraphs for you guys though... hehe http://forums.ubi.com/groupee_common/emoticons/icon_smile.gif

Kootenai
01-16-2005, 12:42 PM
Thanks Boosh, great story!

PBNA-Boosher
01-16-2005, 12:50 PM
No problem, actually I just had an awesome sortie in a P-38 on greatergreen. Shot down a 109 and a 190, but then lost my aileron controls and had to belly land in friendly territorry.