[bobbysocks]

Porfiriy Borisovich Ovsyannikov

The formula of battle is simple:
You should see the enemy first;
Altitude is the guarantor of victory;
Plus speed and steel nerves.

De facto I was born on 29 February 1924, but de jure on 1 March 1924, in a remote settlement in the center of Russia, in Kursk oblast. The name of the village was Ovsyannikovo, and accordingly my family name is Ovsyannikov. I was a hereditary peasant; my father became a carpenter and a laborer, and my mother was a kolkhoz worker.

How did you get into aviation?

It was simple in our Soviet time—club members worked for free. I considered aviation to be the “profession of the elites.” We ran behind the pilots with open mouths, believing that this profession was incomprehensible.
It was in September 1940, at the beginning of the school year; I recall it like it was yesterday. The 15th of September was such a good day, with light clouds. I was in 10th grade at the time. The school was 5 kilometers from my house, in a former monastery—the [monastic] cells were made over into classrooms. It had an enormous garden, an apple orchard. We had one long break a day—20 minutes. We were running round the garden. Suddenly an aircraft appeared overhead—a U-2, flying so low we could see the pilot. We looked—the airplane was turning around. It made only one circuit and then the bell rang. Like a disciplined student, I ran back to class. The late-comers ran in and announced: “The airplane landed! In the field, close by.”
We were in literature class and whispered back and forth. When 15 minutes remained to the end of the lesson, the door suddenly opened and Fedor Yakovlevich Senkevich—the school principal—walked in. He was a tall man, and with him was the pilot, a man of average height. He was wearing a raglan jacket and carrying a mapcase. He removed his helmet, no earphones, just a helmet, with goggles.
Of course, we greeted him: Zdras’te! [Good day]
He asked: “How are things with you? What are you doing for your lesson?”
The teacher responded: “Now we are reviewing previous reading assignments and checking how well it was mastered.”
He replied: “Then I will take up your time to the end of the lesson. Is that alright?”
“Yes, yes, please do.”
This is when I saw the pilot for the first time. The director declared, “Kids!” (He always referred to us as “kids.”) A pilot from the Kursk aero club has flown to us. He wants to converse with you.”
The pilot gave a brief evaluation of the international situation—the war. It was 1940 and the war was already underway. The Germans were fighting in France, the Maginot line, and so on. Speaking briefly, he said that a supplementary call-up had been declared in Kursk, and they were bringing in boys. Then some of our girls raised their hands:
“What about girls?”
He replied: “Ladies! The government has forbidden the selection of young girls. Before this we had [female] pilots. Young girls were trained. But the government has issued a regulation that this is not women’s business. There are other clubs—radio, parachute class... Help yourselves!”
They grew quiet. The lesson ended and debates began. We had 15 young boys and 15 girls. All the boys gathered: “Well, how about it! Should we go? Let’s go!”
Only two did not go. One of them was our idol. His name was Valka Tutov. He was tall, well-proportioned, and the best student among us. He could make a complete revolution around the horizontal bar, and we still hung like sausages. Overall, he was a strong, developed young man. He said:
“Guys, the medical commission will not accept me. I can’t see out of one eye.”
The second guy was, well, not too bright. You might even say he was retarded.
At the established time, we all raced into town. Only two of our group made it through the medical screening. The remainder, including me, were “thrown overboard.” The surgeon probed me and said: “What is this you have—a left-side abdominal hernia!”
Well, that was all for me.
He said: “I advise you, young man, to go to the polyclinic and get a consultation for the hospital.1 Let them do a relatively simple operation on you. After that, we will look at you again.”
Our village was very religious; so were my mother and father, especially my mother. But she was also quite illiterate—she could neither read nor write. They had suggested to her before that I have an operation. But my mother responded:
“Cut on him? No way!”
Now I went to her and said: “Mama, I am going to the hospital, and they will do the operation!”
She protested, but I went anyway. They did the operation. I went back to school in about two weeks. It was late fall by now. My schoolmates who had been selected for the aero club in early November got their head gear somewhere, and showed them off. Well, we were around 17 years old then. They called themselves pilots.

You said that your village was religious. How did they regard Soviet authority in the village? And how did Soviet authority relate to the “believers”?

The village was Old Believers.2 As they used to go to prayers before the revolution, they kept going after. We did not have a church in the village, rather a prayer house. How did the people relate to Soviet authority? I could talk for a long time on this theme. Briefly—we lived the same way as we used to. Kolkhozes were formed. Peasants hardly wanted to go at first, later they “tried it out.” Nobody complained much; they got used to it. And as before, they crossed themselves and prayed.

So, in the larger sense, Soviet authority did not interfere with your lives?

No. Absolutely not.

Was there a party organization? A Komsomol organization?3

Not in the village. There was one in the school. I was an Oktyabrenok [pre-Pioneer]. On holidays, I participated in the religious processions; when I returned, the other boys teased me. But I was terribly religious, and could not argue with them.
But in all, we were happy and lived an interesting life. From my childhood, as long as I can remember, I participated in religious services and performed my duties for all the holidays. We were brought up with our own idiosyncrasies. For example, the railroad track was 5 kilometers away, and we could hear the whistle of the steam locomotives. Well, they preached that when the locomotive whistled, we had to cross ourselves. And we did. Locomotives were considered as anti-Christ manifestations. Airplanes were beginning to fly — an airplane flew over our village, a passenger airplane. It was flying, I think, from Kharkov northward to Moscow. In one of the sermons, I heard them say:
“It is written in the Bible — iron birds will appear in the sky. The noise they will produce will be the anti-Christ, the voice of the devil.”
And further: “You should not look at them; close your ears and cross yourself.”
This is how we lived.

Meanwhile, an airplane landed at your school?

This happened later. When I went to school, I already had begun to break away. What was the cross about? I had begun to argue with my mother.
“I do not believe in God!”
Of course, she was distressed by this.
But we digress. The young men who had joined the aero club came to the school and said to me:
“They have declared a supplementary selection. Do you want to join?”
“Yes, I do!”
So I went to the doctor again.
“What’s this you have?”
“A scar.”
“What did they remove?”
“Remove” was not exactly the right term—they “took in.” Well, in general he understood. Perhaps it was the pre-war situation and the requirements had been lowered. But in the end, he gave me a satisfactory evaluation.
So we began to go to the aero club, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. As soon as lessons ended, we went from the school into town. Exercises began there at 1800 and lasted three hours. We returned home sometime around midnight. It was 10 kilometers to the town, but we were young.

Tell us what kind of equipment you had in the classes.

Nothing special. Well, of course we had posters and cutaway engines. We studied aircraft and aerodynamics, meteorological issues. Everything was laid out for us in an easy manner. I remember it all to this day. Our instructors must take credit for that. Our first flight was in May, with an instructor, of course. By the way, I had a female instructor. She was the wife of the flight commander—Yelena Karayskaya. She was pretty. My instructor had, I think, 10 or 12 students. So, we flew for the first time. I glanced down and there... I was accustomed to a single stream near the village, and I saw many streams! Well, I had no idea where I was, but overall I liked it. The credentials committee came to us, and everyone passed it: none of us were from a kulak background—we were all peasants.4 We made our flights very early, at 0600. We made four flights in a day, no more.

Did they take you out of class on flight days?

From lessons? No. Examinations had already begun at school. We flew from 0600 to 0900. After 0900, as a rule, they released us and we walked to school. They greeted us with the words:
“The pilots have arrived!”
Our flight program was extended. When demonstration flights began, it was possible to be out for a day. During the first flights, we observed the pilot and did not touch the controls. We also flew on Saturday, Sunday, or days off.
One time my father came home on a Sunday. He worked as a foreman or team leader; he was building something somewhere. Well, now they call them handymen. My father was one of the first in the village to buy a battery-operated radio. He had only a fourth-grade parochial school education. He began to teach me church-Slavonic. We had a Bible at home.
I remember to this day, “Az, buki, vedi...”[the first three letters of the church-Slavonic alphabet].
It was Sunday, and we were still lying in bed. Mother awakened us from the kitchen: “Get up! It’s time to eat!”
It was already 10:00, I think. Father turned on the radio. Some kind of music was playing, over and over, and then they announced, “All radio stations of the Soviet Union are working!” This was the sign-on announcement.
Then Vyacheslav Molotov began speaking, and he declared, “Early this morning, the German Army violated the border... They bombed our cities.” He listed them: “Odessa, Kiev, and Minsk.”
Father listened, then he cried out, “Mother, trouble! Mother, trouble! War!”
Mother wailed, cried, and ran outside. The sun was already high. Everyone in our village learned that the war had begun from us.

Had you finished school by this time?

No, both the aero club and school continued to function. One day, some I-16s landed at our aero club airfield. On the other side of the town, in the south, was a large airfield with a concrete runway. Some SBs were stationed there. Why didn’t they land there? I don’t know. Two of I-16s broke their gear during the landing, I think. They came from Chernigov. Some Messerschmitts harassed them in the air. The war was on, and we were training. Back in June, before the war I think, I took off on my sixth flight solo. Everyone was going through the program, but I was the first to solo. I don’t know why, but everything was going my way, and I was the first among all of our young men. We flew only on the U-2. We also had a UT-2 and a UT-1, but only the detachment commander flew them. I remember how we looked at it; it was such a beautiful small airplane, a miniature. I finished school; we had a graduation party.

Did you have finals right before the war?

No. When our final exam was scheduled, a German airplane flew over. We rushed out of the schoolhouse. It had its own unique sound. It was in the evening, probably; it was a reconnaissance aircraft heading past us for Moscow.
Studies ended and they issued us our papers. Sometime in July, around the 26th, we finished aero club. They gave us a certificate of completion for aero club. “Komsomol, forward!” and we rushed off to the front. Quickly, independently, without any summons, we went to the voyenkomat [military commissariat—draft board]. To the front! We are already pilots! Send us to the front! They received us at the voyenkomat and said, “We are not sending you to the front, but to further flight training!” They sent me and two of my comrades to Chuguev Aviation School.

Did you call it “Chugunok” among cadets? [Chugunok in Russian is a cooking vessel that was used in a traditional Russian oven.]

Not at all. We did not call it “Chugunok.” I heard this the first time from you. Its name was Chuguev School.
On 29th of June, my father and younger brother accompanied me from Kursk railroad station to Kharkov. This was my farewell with my parents. Already on the 6th of August, I was enrolled as a cadet in Chuguev School. The school was large, with seven squadrons. Initially they had a terka there as well.5 We studied the UT-2 and I-16. Later we entered a flight program on the UT-2. We began to fly. We flew without any special strain, and there was no shortage of gasoline. We had not even begun solo flights when suddenly, sometime in early September, around the 10th, I think, flights were curtailed. They prepared all the aircraft that were capable of flight.
We began walking guard, securing the aircraft, with a rifle and bayonet that together were taller than we were. We had one captain, Pavlov, the chief of personnel and supply records. He issued us our instructions. “Be vigilant!” He provided a review of events: spies killed someone here, they blew up a bridge there, and saboteurs landed somewhere else. He described the real situation to us. The nights... The nights are dark in Ukraine. We walked around the airplanes, which were spread out with about 30 meters between them. You are walking, and a gopher scampers from under your foot. “Whew!” And you have some unspeakable feelings… Your senses are on full alert. You are pumping adrenaline. In the morning you hear that in another squadron, sentries shot a horse. Someone shouts: “Halt! Who goes there?”
It keeps walking. Well, it turns out the “walker” was a horse. We had such episodes.
A rumor went around that they would evacuate us. The unserviceable airplanes were burned. On the 15th of September, we set out in a march column. We rolled up our greatcoat and shouldered our rifles and gas masks. We formed up and moved out. Where? For what? The answer to every question was the same—“Forward – march!” With all of the school’s squadrons. Our squadron walked from Blagodatnyy settlement. The squadrons were dispersed. We walked about 40 kilometers on the first day. We moved in this manner on foot 500 versts [approximately 500 km] to Kalach in Voronezh district! The Germans were at Smolensk. At night they flew over us to Kharkov, which they bombed.

Did your instructors stand Alert-1 in the cockpits of the I-16s to intercept enemy planes?6

No, They did not stand watch. At Kalach they mounted us in rail cars. Where were they hauling us? It was a secret! They were correct in concealing our destination, by the way. There was a lengthy delay at Rostov while they permitted a hospital train to pass. I remember that well. They let it pass, and then the Germans bombed it.

Did it have the cross markings, in accordance with all the international conventions?

Yes, red crosses everywhere. But who looked at that? Oh, God! “In accordance with the Geneva Convention…” Oh, come on! They just dropped their bombs.

Did our pilots bomb their medical facilities?

I don’t know. But try to spot the crosses from an altitude of 6,000 meters.

Perhaps the Germans did not see the red crosses?

I don’t know. But that was not my point. I simply said that if we had not let that train pass, then it possibly would have been us and not them. We crossed the bridge over the Don. They transported us to Baku and there transferred us to a steamer. When we were crossing the Caspian Sea, I became seasick, perhaps for half a day. I was thinking, “God! It’s a good thing that I ended up in aviation. Thank God not in the Navy!”
We arrived at Krasnovodsk. The electricity was flowing! There was no blackout, it was as if there was no war going on! They placed us on a passenger train to Chimkent. A [flight] school was based there. The squadrons were being dispersed throughout Kazakhstan and Turkestan. One squadron was in Dzhambul. Ours was in Arys, a railroad hub north of Chimkent. The school was set up on a base for troop ammunition storage facilities.
By the way, Ivan Kozhedub was at our school. One day they held a formation and read a citation to us about Kozhedub. He flew at low altitude and hit something, and then made a forced landing. I have forgotten the details.

What types of aircraft did you have?

We were supposed to graduate on the I-16. We flew the UTI-4, that’s a dual seater. Before that we were supposed to master the UT-2.

Did the UT-2 have straight or bent wings?

Straight. What else?

Were you afraid of it? Was there talk that it would spin?

Indeed, it was complicated in that respect. It would go into a flat spin. At the beginning, for some time, we were forbidden to execute complex aerobatic maneuvers. I will tell you about spins later.
We began to train, and simultaneously constructing the airfield. The Kazakh steppe, gophers, burrows. We leveled the hummocks with shovels—no heavy equipment was available. Summer is dry there, and autumn—you can sink in this soil. Spring there is like a carpet! Initially tulips, later poppies. In mid-May, large flocks of sheep come. What they ate, I don’t know. Everything has dried up, everything is parched. Only camel’s thorn are green, and they remain green all summer.
We built the airfield and began to fly. By now it was 1942. Stalingrad. We finished with the UT-2 and went on to flights in the UTI-4.
After the U-2, when I took off in the UT-2, I began to work the stick abruptly. My flight instructor almost killed me after my check ride: “Do you want to kill me? What were you doing?”
I’m describing how maneuverable it was.
The UTI-4 was small—you could reach out and touch the wingtip, it seemed. In the rear cockpit you could say that your back was resting against the fin. Well, in short order I completed a total of nine flights. Right there it had begun, and just as soon it ended: they took a portion of our instructors to the front, along with the operational I-16 aircraft. Only several crippled airplanes remained. Some even had spreader bars between the wheels to keep the chassis from collapsing. They divided the cadets into two parts: we had four groups in the detachment—114th, 124th, 134th, and 144th. These they divided in half, and only the 114th and 124th flew. I was in the 134th. So I and my comrades spent many unhappy days on the sidelines. While they began to fly an accelerated program, we walked guard, spent a day on guard duty, and the next day worked in the kitchen. They flew and we “licked our lips.”
By now it was November 1942, and I was on guard duty. A call came from the entrance to the dugout. The chief of the guard took the handset. I heard him say:
“Roger!” [Understood!]
He then informed us:
“The squadron commander just came through the checkpoint.”
I was replaced at my post, and a person replaced at his post should then stand watch over the guard house—the awake shift. I was standing on top of the dugout; it was cold, I was wearing a sheepskin coat. I was holding such a long, long rifle—longer than I was tall. Major Yusim walked up. He had his own distinctive stride—he did not raise his head, he looked down all the time. He came up even with me, raised his head, and asked the question:
“Ovsyannikov! Do you want to fly?”
“Yes, comrade Major!”
Then he said to me from below (from below, because I was above him, on top of the dugout):
“An experimental group is being formed, which will, bypassing the UTI-4, go through the program on Yak-7s, which have arrived at the school. We will issue the Yaks immediately. What do you think about that? Well, we will give you an additional course in the UT-2, including high-speed landings and maneuvers in zone.”

Were they dual-control or single-seat Yaks?

The Yaks were both single- and dual seat. We practiced takeoffs and landings and aerobatics in the Yaks. But we also performed this training in the I-16. Also spins. You had only to pull back the stick and it would spin. The Ishak [donkey, the nickname for the I-16] was demanding. But on the other hand, it came out of the spin immediately.

They have told me that the I-16 spun in an unusual manner. Everything normally spins evenly, but the I-16 rotated 360 degrees—slowed, rotated 360 degrees again, and slowed again.

I will not lie about the I-16—I did not fly in them. I flew the UTI-4 [a two-seat version of the I-16]. The Cobra spun in a jerky movement, and the MiG-19...
But let’s return to November 1942. As soon as the squadron commander left, the chief of the guard jumped up: “Are you an idiot? Do you want to be arrested? They will give you ten days of arrest!”
Being on guard duty, I did not have the right to talk or respond. But what kind of question was put to me? It was a provocation! I returned to my barracks after the shift change, and they were already waiting for me—my former flight commander, who trained me in the UT-2, and my instructor, Lieutenant Viktor Polesskiy. They began to train us in a special program. We worked on high-speed landings. You get close to the ground—level it out, and at level attitude carry on for perhaps a kilometer. Well, perhaps this was not necessary, I can’t say, really.
Then we moved on to the Yak-7. In July 1943 they graduated us; we “chased down” the group that had already completed in the Yak-7, but after the I-16. Well, we were like the guinea pigs—test animals. In July they commissioned us with officer rank—junior lieutenant. Before this they graduated as sergeants.

What did you think of the Yak after the UT and UTI?

Well, the Yak was a good airplane. As I began to take off, my back was pressed into the seat—it had a lot more power! As far as manipulating the controls—it was a normal airplane.

Were there breakdowns? How often were they damaged from unskillful flying?

I never had any myself; but in general, well, I don’t remember.

What color were they painted?

The UT-2s, I think, were white and one with a red stripe. The I-16s were greenish. Well, I’m not very selective in my colors, but it was closer to greenish.

Upon graduation, how many total hours had you flown?

Altogether 100 hours, including the aero club. About ten hours in the Yak at flight school. The program was local flight—circuits around the airfield and in the local area. One time we flew cross-country as a pair.

Did you have any examination or test for graduation?

Yes, there was an examination. It was flying around the local area with an instructor. I don’t remember whom I flew with. They also tested us in theory. I finished flight school in July and they issued us canvas boots. Before us they sent out sergeant pilots in puttees, and collected up any new greatcoats among us. Well, we ourselves exchanged them, and no one lost his. They issued us a certificate that said we were officers, and with this certificate... They had just introduced these ranks. Initially we were junior lieutenants. It was different for artillerymen—they held lieutenant rank for six months of their training. Well, Timoshenko was not really fair to us aviators.

Talk about how they fed you during training.

They fed us normally. It was sufficient.

Everyone with whom we have raised this subject has said: “We were not fed enough until we reached the front lines.”

Well, I can attest to that as well. For example, they did not give the instructors a supplementary breakfast. So we gave them supplements from our rations. We were not starving, but if they had given us seconds, we would have gladly eaten them. No, I would not say that we were hungry, no. Our ration was normal, but strictly controlled. Do you understand? It was according to norm.
One time we were sent to sort rotten onions from good ones in a vegetable storage base and we tried to eat them. We had young stomachs.
Well, we went to Moscow. We arrived at the personnel department and, instead of the front, they sent our entire group to Ivanovo—to be transitioned to the Cobra. On the one hand it was unfortunate, but on the other hand perhaps we were lucky. Initially we were upset. Well, we were officers and we were eager to get into the fight.
We arrived in the town Ivanovo at the 22nd Reserve Air Regiment. We went through another “terka” and transition training. There were no dual-control Cobras. They checked us out in Yaks. The food was worse in the reserve regiment than at flight school. I don’t remember the norm number. At the front, you could eat as much as you wanted for dinner. At the training regiment you could eat only as much as they gave you. Don’t ask for more! We were young then, and constantly wanted to eat.

Were they paying you then?

Yes, 550 rubles. But in the market a loaf of bread cost 100 rubles and a bottle of vodka 400 rubles. I recall one time we went together and bought vodka for someone’s birthday.
But more importantly, in essence, we frittered away our time. Flights occurred infrequently and we could have finished transition more quickly. We went dancing to keep ourselves busy and learn how to dance. The dances were free at the local circus.

What was your first impression of the Cobra?

My first impression of the Cobra was that it was a remarkable airplane. I liked it. Why did I like it? I will tell you. You sat in the cockpit and you could see everything, because it had a nose wheel. I did not fly the Lavochkin; I did not fight in the Yak; but I flew it, and I will tell you that the Cobra had good visibility.

What model of the Cobra were these—the “D” or the “Q”?

There were many variants. I do not recall specifically how they were divided up. We even had some with electric drive to change the propeller pitch. Later they were hydraulic—variable-pitch propellers.

Describe the program for transitioning to the Cobra.

What did we do in the Cobra? First, circuits around the airfield, then a program of flights in zone where we worked out the techniques of piloting the airplane. We did as our instructor directed—there was no dual-seater.
Before the completion tests, that is, toward the end of the program, I had an assignment: fly out, then go to a [gunnery] range and fire my machine guns at ground targets. I took off, flew out as required, and then decided I would do a slow barrel roll. I began to execute the roll. While in the inverted position, I somehow moved the stick slightly away from myself. What does this mean? My buttocks came out of my seat and I was hanging in my seat and shoulder harness. While I was dangling there, my airplane went into a flat spin. I began to recover. The first attempt... the airplane did a revolution and the nose came up suddenly, above the horizon. I thought, “Well, now it will recover!” But it went back out of control. Then I collected myself and thought, “What did they teach us?” They taught us well. I applied stick in the direction of the spin. You understand? At the moment the nose dropped, I pulled back on the stick and applied opposite rudder. I looked out and it had taken hold. I recovered. I flew straight home—no gunnery range—straight home. I had the thought, “Bail out!” I’m not lying. I thought, “I will jump!” What will I tell them? I had failed in my flight mission.

What did they say to you about this?

No one said anything, because I didn’t tell anyone about what had happened.

But you didn’t complete the gunnery task.

Think about it. Who was there to monitor it? So it went unnoticed.

What were the armaments on your Cobras?

The two extra wing guns were removed. What remained were two Colt-Browning 12.7 mm [.50 cal.] machine guns and a 37 mm cannon. It had 39 shells in the cannon system, but we snuck in 40. How 40? We loaded one directly into the barrel.

It’s a good thing I was unable to correct you. I was thinking, the cannon has a drum, each shell has a spot... What about the Cobra’s engine?

It was good, but weak in terms of engine hours, and not very good if you flew with too much throttle. I will tell you about it. This was not a fault of the airplane, but ours. Because our gasoline was not suitable.
We flew on our fuel—B-78. The Cobra had a limiter [governor]. The normal supercharger pressure on the Cobra was 67 pounds per square inch. They set the governor on the Cobra so that it would not exceed 45 pounds. Kinematics supported this; it was ours, already developed. It would not give any more with our fuel. Therefore, if one were using our fuel, the connecting rods in the engine would snap.
That’s not all. They glued a piece of paper on the throttle slot. Paper, ordinary paper. You could set the throttle to get only 40 pounds. Maximum 40. But in combat it was possible to get 45 pounds, but only by tearing the paper. Then you had to report this to the mechanics later. They could see this themselves; they then would remove the filters from the engine to check for [metal] filings.
What was dangerous about the Cobra? Its coolant fluid was Prestone [antifreeze], and it burned better than gasoline. In the event connecting rods would snap, a fire would break out. And in most cases—right away.

They said that, even under such conditions, these Allison engines did not last the projected number of operating hours.

Well, you know, this did not affect me—the mechanics worried about such things.

At the front, did you fly on our gasoline? What about at the training center?

At the front. More precisely, at both places. There was no other choice. The American gas was B-100. They could deliver it some places, but we never received any. Perhaps Pokryshkin flew on these aircraft.

Radios. What type was installed in the Cobra?

Very good radios. They were good for those times. At least there were no complaints about them. In general, we had good communications. There were earphones, not helmets, but earphones. There were no helmets. We wore our pilotka [garrison hat] and earphones. We also did not take our [oxygen] masks. In place of an oxygen mask we used a mouthpiece. Like a cigarette holder. We breathed through our mouth and this did not interfere with our ability to see.

How did the Cobra handle in flight? What were its optimal operating altitudes?

I don’t recall. In my opinion, it would even reach 12,000 meters. It was capable of fighting at all altitudes. It was a good airplane, an aerobatic machine. I liked the Cobra, but I did not fight in our fighters, so I can’t compare it to them.

It is well known that at one time the Cobra had a very weak tail section.

This is absolutely true. But we did not crumple our tails, because ours were reworked. Here’s the story. In our regiment, I think two Cobras twisted their tails, and the pilots bailed out. This was before my time. Our diplomatic representatives delivered a complaint to the manufacturer. They sent out the parts to strengthen the tails. Our technicians strengthened the aircraft. We riveted two plates around the tail portion of the fuselage.

We are interested in how your Cobras were painted.

Ours were green in color. Perhaps we did not over-paint ours. They painted only specific portions of the surface—the regimental markings. In our regiment we had white spinners, and I think the rudders were also white. In the 72nd Regiment, they were red, and in the 68th Regiment—sky blue.

What kind of art did they paint on your airplanes?

We decorated them. Stars [denoting victories] were painted on the nose. In our regiment we had Alexey Semenovich Smirnov, who later became a Twice Hero of the Soviet Union.7 When I arrived in the regiment, he was a squadron commander and Hero of the Soviet Union. The young generation arrived and among them was a pilot who drew well. He drew a “joker,” like on playing cards, on the rudder of his plane. There weren’t any other such art cases or attraction to drawing.
Our aircraft were not repainted in the winter. We flew them in green. The stars on the wings? I don’t even remember where they were, but I think they were only on the bottom. The serial numbers remained on the fins, but I don’t remember their color.

Do you remember your tactical number?

I remember one—42. This was already after they had shot me down and I had changed aircraft.

Let’s return to the ZAP.

The reserve air regiment… I was the duty officer for the airfield. The telephone rang:
“A colonel is arriving at your location in an UT-2. Meet the airplane and put it in the hangar.”
I did as instructed—I met him. He climbed out, but he was not wearing the Caucasian fur cap which was given to all officers starting from colonel as a part of the uniform, rather an Astrakhan fur cap. “The ‘merchant’ has arrived!”8
This was sometime in February 1944. We had already completed transition training.

Was there a sense that the war was coming toward an end and you might not make it to the front?

The situation was not that clear yet. Some of the country’s western republics were still occupied.
I will continue. The guest—the “merchant”—turned out to be Colonel Ivanov, the commander of a front-line corps. He was a pilot, as they say, “from God.” He flew in spite of his general’s rank. The only thing he could not fly was a broomstick. He died in a crash after the war in a small German liaison aircraft, the Siebel. I believe that at the time he was a PVO commander.
So, I met him and sent him to the headquarters. I came from the airfield and everyone was already assembled. It turned out that everyone had already been “sold”! I was surprised, but my name was already on the list. In the morning, we were supposed to turn in our belongings and sign out. I gathered up my linens and mattress and carried them on my back to the supply room. A fellow student behind me, from Chuguev flight school but from another squadron, was shouting:
“Ovsyannikov! Wait! Don’t leave! Come back! I am going to go in your place! Captain Sarkisyan will explain everything to you.”
He was the adjutant there. I no longer remember what detachment or squadron. I went up to him indignantly:
“What’s going on?”
He replied:
“Listen! You will still get there! What do you get—550 rubles? He only gets seven rubles.”
This guy, Boris Sosna, was a handsome man. We became friends, we exchanged letters, and he just died last year, in the south, in Pyategorsk. Back then he was a “string puller,” who had gone AWOL on at least one occasion. Because of this they gave him starshina rather than lieutenant. Therefore as a starshina he received seven rubles salary.
“Why am I being held back?”
“It’s all been decided. You’ll still get there.”
So I laid out my mattress again. It embarrassed me to tears.
It was the end of April before another “merchant” showed up. It turned out that they assigned me to the same regiment as my “friend-rival”, as I called him at that time. So at the end of April I left from Ivanovo and ended up in the same corps. But now instead of a colonel, a major general received me. We had a conversation, and from our group he sent me and one other comrade to the guards division. In our corps we had two divisions, one guards and the other not guards. They called it the 180th “wild” IAD. This division was also in Cobras.

How did you get there, to the regiment, from the school in Ivanovo?

Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. They told us how to reach the regiment: “Go to this station, and there you will find your way.”
This was in Valday rayon, the village Somenka, and Somenka airfield. [The 5th Guards Fighter Air Division, 6th Air Army, Northwest Front was stationed at Somenka airfield from March to May 1944. I.S.]
Aha! Right away! There was nothing there.
We arrived at the station with a friend at night, crawled out [of the conveyance], and it was cold. It was spring, the month of May, but still cold. An old woman was stoking a small stove. We asked her:
“Please tell us, how do we get to Somenka?”
She replied:
“Down this path. Go this way. You will get there by daylight.”
“How far is it?”
“Six kilometers and a little bit.”
How much over six kilometers she did not specify, and like fools, we didn’t ask. We found the path and set off. We walked and we walked, and there, to our left and then to our right, the black grouse uttered their mating calls. We walked three-plus kilometers past the six she told us, and the road ended! The road just ended. It was an overcast day, with fog and low clouds. We reached a stream. On the other side was a settlement. The stream was wide, with a log in place of a bridge. We went across and stopped at a peasant hut.
“Does anyone live here?”
An old woman answered: “Yes, Yes, come in.”
We asked her:“Where is Somenka? We have to get to Somenka.”
“Somenka? Yes, I have been there, to a wedding.”
“How far is it?”
“Six kilometers and a little bit.”
Again that little bit!“Which way?”
“Go this way.”
We walked farther. We walked and we walked. Suddenly the overcast lifted and we saw an airplane fly over. It was a U-2, one pass. It dropped down and was hidden by the forest. We walked and we walked; we saw a stream, half full of water. The ducks flew off. We approached the stream and a man was walking, in a dark blue jacket. He was an aviator with a pistol. Perhaps he was duck hunting.
“Look here! Where is the airfield?”
“It’s over there, ahead of you.”
I took off my canvas boots and trousers. My friend Pasha walked straight into the stream and got all wet. I put on my dry clothes and he wrung the water out of his; then we waited for them to dry out. We made it to the airfield. We asked where the division was, and it turned out that the division headquarters was also on this same airfield, in a dugout.
Well, how did they greet us? We reported in the normal fashion. They directed us, I don’t really remember, either to the commander or to the personnel department. It turned out that they left me at this airfield, in the 28th Guards Regiment, in which I fought. My friend was also sent to a guards regiment—the 72nd. This was almost in the opposite direction, but he was lucky—they took him there in a Po-2.
Well, we walked out of the division headquarters, and this same Boris Sosna was walking toward me: “Ah, friend! Come on! Have you eaten? Let’s go eat!”
He took us to the dugout where the canteen was located. He was a regular there already.
“Hey, girls! Reinforcements have arrived! Feed us something!”
What food they had there! We were accustomed to rear-area rations. Here they brought out enormous portions—fried potatoes, a huge cutlet, and compote. I thought to myself: “One could live well here.”

When did you receive a personal weapon?

I arrived at the regiment and was issued a TT. We all had TTs. They gave us uniforms, weapons, and maps. I ended up in the 2nd Squadron. My commander was a major, Petr Ivanovich Isaev. He fought in the Finnish War. We called him “Grandpa.” He was over 30 years old. Later my flight commander became the squadron commander. And so began my front-line journey. They checked my piloting skills. My flight commander checked me out in a dual-control Yak. Later I took off in a Cobra. I flew around the airfield, made several flights, and later in the zone. Then we began to maneuver in pairs. This was to work on our so-called coordination. I established a sort of rhyme with my lead:
“I am your lead,” he said to me,
Looking me straight in the eye.
“Now remember, in your sleep,
You should be close to me!”

Tell us, did you conduct any practice aerial engagements?

Both coordination and training aerial engagements. They trained us well. We fired at both ground and aerial targets. The aerial target was a fabric sleeve towed behind an airplane. They used Cobras to tow it. They rolled it up in a ball, then cast it out, and it fully deployed. My time came to shoot at the sleeve. I sat in my cockpit, waiting for the signal to launch. I could already see the towing airplane—it was almost over the airfield. I took off on signal, raised the landing gear, closed the flaps, and gave it throttle. Suddenly, my engine cut out. It was as if I had closed the throttle myself. I was at about 100 meters altitude, no more. This was in Kalinin oblast — we were surrounded by trees. I glanced to my left and saw a small open area. There was a hamlet and a field. I did not have time even to turn or even drop the gear doors and I was there. I landed. I just sat it down. They said to me on the radio:
“Where are you? Where are you?”
I replied: “I made a forced landing. Everything is okay. Six kilometers out, perhaps.”
Well, the truth was that they had to drive around for 15–20 kilometers to get me to the airfield.
They said: “An aircraft is taking off. Direct him to you.”
So I did that.
“Well, any problems?”
I responded: “Everything is normal.”
“Wait there. They are driving out to get you.”
An engineer and some technicians finally showed up in about an hour, perhaps less. They had to go around a small stream. But they finally found me. The flight technician came with a mechanic for the “evacuation,” as they liked to call such operations.
“What happened?”
I said, “I don’t know. It was as if I closed the throttle.”
Already a rumor was going around that we were going to the front, and now this. They had already sent someone from the regiment off somewhere, because he came down and broke his airplane. He crashed a second airplane. Then he left the regiment. At one time he was the wingman for my flight leader. Now I had taken his place, and also crashed.
I left for the airfield and reported in. We arrived at the regiment and reported there. I told my story. In the evening, we left the airfield to rest, to the village where we were billeted. Our squadron lived on the second floor of the building. I lay down.

Did the other men give you looks?

I don’t know. Some did, some didn’t. You know how a person can blow things out of proportion. I did not pay attention to anyone else. I lay there for a long time. Suddenly, it was night, perhaps midnight, the door opened, someone walked in, and came straight over to me. He came up to me and said:
“Ovsyannikov, you aren’t asleep?”
“No.”
“It wasn’t your fault—the fuel pump broke.”
A great load was lifted from me. It was Fedot Aksenenko, the squadron engineer. He calmed me, relating to me in a caring way. He could have forced me to be tortured until morning. He understood what I was feeling.
Everything turned out alright. The regiment stood down for reconstitution: pilots arrived, new aircraft joined our fleet. At the end of June, somewhere around the 18th, we took off for the front.
We flew to the front at low-level, for purposes of camouflage, in order not to be observed. We went at an altitude of 100 meters. We made an intermediate stop at Andriapol. This was also in Tver region. By the way, my home regiment is now based at Andriapol. True, only its name remains there. We refueled at Andriapol, and flew on to Dretun airfield. It was a primitive strip, also in the forest, 18 or 20 kilometers from the front line. It had been registered by the Germans, and therefore was subject to artillery fire. After we landed, they fired on us. It killed one mechanic and burned up one airplane, but not ours. An American Curtiss was left behind from the regiment that occupied this airfield before us. They “unoccupied” this airfield on our behalf and left behind a damaged aircraft. This is the one that burned. A shell burst literally under the tail of my comrade Sergey Korobov, leaving a big crater. But his aircraft suffered not a single hole. It was sprinkled with dirt, and that was all.