A Dance with Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II (45 page)

I was totally trusting of my crew with the exception of the mechanic; he had failed me once by not checking the fuel tanks, and
another time he didn't warm up the engines in the winter. Besides, he
was so dirty-mouthed I couldn't stand it. I was brought up with real
Russian intelligentsia who survived the socialist revolution in
Leningrad. My family lived in a roomy house, with six families and
eleven children in one apartment. Our parents treated us carefully. In
our big flat lived a novelist who read us poems and stories, and we
children sat near the fire and absorbed all those wonderful pieces of
literature. Her elder daughter played the piano and sang for us. All the
tenants of our flat added much to our upbringing. We never heard
rude words, shouts, or swearing. So back to the crew: no matter how
much the mechanic pleaded to be left in the crew, I replaced him. The
crew comprised a pilot, copilot, tail gunner, navigator, mechanic, and
radio operator.

We were transferred to a division of the long-distance flights,
closer to the front. After this redeployment, the commanding staff of
the division invited me to a division dinner with their major-general
at the head of table. As the dinner came to an end, I noticed that the
general's staff were quietly sneaking out of the room. I tried to follow
their example, but I was stopped by the commander of the division. I
understood that the general wanted to bed me down. Yes, I was only a
lieutenant, but apart from that I was Olga Lisikova, and it was impossible to bed me down. His pressure was persistent. I had to think very
fast, because he was in all respects stronger than me, and I knew well
that nobody would dare to come to my rescue. In desperation I said, "I
fly with my husband in my crew!" and he was taken aback. He didn't
expect to hear that. He released me; I immediately rushed out and
found the radio operator and mechanic of my crew. I didn't make
explanations. I, as commander of the crew, ordered that one of them
was to be my fictitious husband and gave them my word of honor that
nobody would ever learn the truth! Then I released them.

I couldn't sleep all night; I couldn't believe any commander would
behave like that. I thought, Were generals allowed to do anything that
came to mind? I couldn't justify his behavior. The only explanation
that seemed appropriate was that I was really very attractive in my
youth. Thank God we flew away early the next morning.

I already had 120 combat missions when our division began receiving the C-47 aircraft. It was a most sophisticated plane, beyond any
expectations. We pilots didn't even have to master it-it was perfect
and flew itself! Before I was assigned a mission in it, I made one check
flight. My next flight was a combat mission, to drop paratroopers to
liberate Kiev. Later, when Kiev had been liberated, I flew there again.
There were few planes on the landing strip, and in the distance I saw
an aircraft of unusual shape, like a cigar. I realized at once that it was
an American B-29. I taxied and parked next to it. My radio operator,
tail-gunner, and I were invited aboard by the American crew. We
spoke different languages, but my mechanic knew German and an
American spoke it also; thus, the communication took place. The
outside of the aircraft was no surprise, but when you got into it,
touched it, and saw the most sophisticated equipment, you realized
that it was the most perfect aircraft design. The Americans received
us very warmly. The news that we flew the American C-47 made
them respect us more. The most astonishing news for them was that
I, a woman, was commander of the plane. They couldn't believe it. It
was an instant reaction-I suggested that I would fly them in my plane to prove it! I put the crew in the navigator compartment and
placed the copilot in the right seat beside me. The flight was short,
six or seven minutes, but it was hilarious. After that I was strictly
reprimanded by my commander.

By the time I had made 200 combat missions, I was entrusted at
last to fly in the Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the
Red Army. I will tell you about one of those flights. I was assigned a
mission to drop six paratroopers into the deep rear of the enemy.
When we ascended to the altitude of 3,000 meters the tail-gunner
reported a Focke Wulf 19o on our tail, but not attacking. I couldn't
understand why; then decided that it was a reconnaissance aircraft,
and the pilot was interested in what cargo we carried. I knew if I
changed course or dove, he would start firing. I climbed up a little and
hid the aircraft in the clouds. The fascist instantly began attacking us
but made another mistake by firing while he was facing the moon,
which blinded him. There were bullets bouncing against the fuselage
but so far no serious damage. He attacked once more but with no
success, because we were by then deep in the clouds.

We had changed course, so now we corrected it and crossed the
front line. In the enemy rear we usually flew at a very low altitude,
because the Germans had detectors sensitive to flights above 300
meters. Our path to the enemy rear was a crooked route, because we
avoided flying over towns and other places where we might be detected. It happened that we flew directly over an enemy airfieldbombers were circling around it. I knew that these fields were surrounded by antiaircraft guns and sound detectors that could easily
tell we were Russian. More experienced pilots had told me to quickly
change the engine sound if this happened to me, so I ordered the
mechanic to change the synchronization of the engines so we might
sound like a German Junkers aircraft. It worked; we flew through the
area without an attack.

At last we arrived at the appointed spot, and my passengers bailed
out. We held to that course so the Germans couldn't identify the
place where the men jumped; then we took a course back to our base.
After about forty minutes at low altitude, the mechanic inquired if I
had touched the fuel-tank switch. I was angry, because in my crew we
had a strict rule: never interfere with other crew members' work. But
then he showed me the fuel-tank switch circling of its own accord. I
understood what had happened: the German fighter had shot the fuel
lines, and now we had fuel only in one tank, only enough for one and
one-half hours. The other fuel tanks had been cut off.

We chose the shortest route to the front line, but when the red
light began signaling that we were running out of fuel, goosebumps
ran back and forth over my body. I even felt dizzy at the very thought
that in a few moments we would crash. I continued flying in a desperate hope to cross back over the front line-and we did! At night the
terrain is clearly perceivable, and I decided to land the plane. At any
moment the engines could quit. I ordered the crew to go back to the
tail of the aircraft, but nobody moved. I throttled back and began
gliding down. I did not lower the landing gear, having decided to
belly-land. But at this moment, the lights of a landing strip lit up. The
mechanic managed to lower the gear, and we touched down. It turned
out to be a front-line airdrome for small planes. When the aircraft
stopped and we were to deplane, we saw that we were surrounded by
military carrying guns. I ordered the mechanic to open the door and
say a few phrases in both German and Russian. Then the misunderstanding was cleared up. The day before, a German bomber had
landed at that airdrome, and when he found that he had landed on
Russian territory, he very quickly took off again.

In another episode I was assigned a mission to fly to the enemy
rear and drop supplies to the partisans. I crossed the front line at
4,000 meters, and at the appointed place began a dive. The altimeter
showed me to be lower and lower, but I could see nothing through the
clouds. Finally the altitude read zero and then less than that. Judging
by the meter I was to be deep in the soil, but still I held the dive. I
couldn't return to base without completing my mission: I didn't want
to he reproached after the flight that I hadn't fulfilled the risky mission only because I was a coward, because I was a woman. Then I
glimpsed the ground, and below me was the target where we were to
drop the cargo. The area was covered with dense, patchy fog. We
dropped the supplies to the partisans and returned to base.

When we arrived we learned that all the crews had turned back,
not having managed to fulfill the mission. Everyone was astonished.
How could I, a woman, do what other male pilots hadn't managed to
accomplish? The division commander said he would promote me to
be awarded the Gold Star of Hero of the Soviet Union, but I never
received that award, because my crew consisted of males. If the crew
had been female, it would have been awarded.

I flew with that division almost the whole war and completed 280
combat missions, but I was never awarded a single order. Although I
was promoted for awards, it was always denied. The deputy commander of the division staff told me that it was totally his fault and responsibility that I had never been given an order. He had decided
that I might get a swelled head in the purely male division if I had
been given a high award. Instead, he thought it quite healthy for
stories about me to be published in the press. Twenty years later,
when I met him at the reunion of our division, I saw that his breast
was pinned with high awards. I told him that during the whole war I
had made more than 28o combat flights as commander of the aircraft,
while he had all the traces of distinction on his body although he
hadn't made a single combat flight.

I had a funny episode in 1945 when Kiev was liberated. I was assigned to pick up football players from Kiev and bring them to Moscow. I was sitting in the cockpit watching them approach the aircraft,
swaying and hardly moving their feet. No doubt they were drunk.
Their looks made me laugh until I heard dirty words-it enraged me.
They didn't know that the commander of the crew was a woman. I
decided to teach them a lesson. I climbed to 4,000 meters and totally
disconnected the passenger compartment from the heating system.
Some time later their coach entered the cockpit. I demanded an apology for their swearing; otherwise, I would freeze them to death. All
together they cried out, "Olga, forgive us." When we landed and I
passed by them, they stood with their heads bowed. I smiled, and
thus our friendship started.

Later, in 1945, I flew the same team to play a match with another
football team. In the airport where we landed they asked me to be
their guest and gave me a seat at the commentator's booth. I was
hurrying to my seat when I met a friend, a press correspondent, who
introduced me to a young man, Volf Plaksin by name. It was my fate; I
have lived in love with my second husband for forty-five happiest
years. Then, two years ago, he died.

NOTE: Olga Lisikova, who lives in St. Petersburg, was not available
for an interview, and her reminiscences were obtained by correspondence. There is no present-day photograph of her.

I always keep in touch with my friends-it is
for the last day of my life.

Nina Slovokhotova

586th Fighter Regiment

Nina Raspopova