The sector next to the Mius Front was called “The Blue Line” by the Russians and “Gottenkopf” (“Godhead”) by the Germans. It was vital for the Germans to retain the Taman peninsula as a starting position for any future offensive so, using the locals as slaves, they built a series of extremely strong fortifications. There were two defense lines 20–25 km apart, saturated with pillboxes, machine-gun posts and artillery trenches, all connected by communication trenches. The main line of defense was covered in minefields and several lines of razor wire. The German positions were bolstered by a number of almost impenetrable natural fortifications: bogs, coastal lakes and flooded lands on the northern sector, and forested mountains on the southern sector. As a result of their swift retreat in the spring of 1943, the Germans had avoided significant losses and were gathered in strength. After some desultory skirmishing, the fighting started in earnest once the Soviet troops decided to make a determined effort to break through the Blue Line. However the Soviets did not commit soldiers in sufficient force, and the assault soon degenerated into a bloody stalemate.
For eighteen-year-old novice navigator Olga Golubeva this was her tenth sortie over the “Blue Line.”454 Her U-2’s little 100-horsepower engine was clattering away with the strain. Under the wings and belly of the aircraft bombs hung from simple hooks, Olga’s ordnance. She leaned over the side, peering down at the woodland, the fields, the roads, looking for places where they might be able to make an emergency landing if they had to. She was not thinking about anti-aircraft guns or fighters, and had no idea what they would be flying into in a few minutes. She had never been under fire.
The western outskirts of the Novorossiysk were where they saw most of the flashes coming from and heard the incessant roar of gunfire, and that was where they were to drop their bombs. Olga pulled the knobs to release them and the plane jolted. Moments later they saw bright flashes below as the incendiary bombs burst at an altitude of 100–300 meters, setting fire to large areas. Nina Altsybeeva turned the plane to fly home, but Olga could not stop looking back to where their fire was blazing. What a sight!
By ill luck they faced a strong headwind on their return journey. Their little aircraft was almost stationary and simply could not escape from a sudden barrage of anti-aircraft fire. Huge spheres hurtled toward them, “exploded, and turned into sinister clouds.” One of the shells burst very nearby, and it felt as if the plane had been hit by a battering ram. “They are aiming too high,” Olga reflected, but immediately realized that against the moonlit clouds their plane was highly visible and the German gunners were just finding their range. Nina was weaving the plane about so they presented a more elusive target. “We need to hold out another five minutes,” Olga said, hoping that by then they would be out of the firing zone. They had no time to be scared. After a second’s respite, there was another exploding shell, and then another, this time right next to them. The plane was hit and fell in a spin. Nina pulled them out of it, but evasive action was no longer an option; the stricken plane could barely fly in a straight line. A new squall of fire flung the plane to one side and Olga realized that their only choice was to fly with the wind. “Nina, head for the fire. We’ll piggy-back on the wind!” she said, and Nina circled back and flew toward the German rear, soon leaving the anti-aircraft fire behind. They needed to change direction, but the plane would not obey until Nina contrived a flat turn with no banking. They adapted to what their wounded plane could still manage and flew back, Nina never taking her eyes off the instruments, and Olga keeping hers on the ground below, checking it against the map. The work was too demanding to give them time to think about anything else. People probably never do think so clearly as when they are in mortal danger. At last, they saw their airfield, with a signal lamp shining to them from the perimeter.
The girl mechanics examining the plane gasped periodically. “Half the surface skin is gone,” “And look at the holes in the spar bridge.” “The cockpits! The cockpits are riddled!”
Nina told Olga to report to the commander, and she went cheerfully to the takeoff point, where she found another person with Bershanskaya. This man, when Olga showed on the map where the flak had been coming from, asked what armaments were being used. Olga only shrugged in response, while snarling silently to herself: “Not a catapult!” The stranger repeated his question: “So what was it coming from?” “It went b-boom and then there was a gray cloud,” Olga said, prompting a guffaw from what turned out to be the chief navigator of the entire Air Division. “Why don’t you try it yourself!” Olga thought darkly. She had just undergone her baptism of fire.
On June 2, 1943, the weather over the Blue Line was bad, worse than the Pe-2 dive-bombers could cope with.455 It was not a plane you could fly blind, as they were well aware at headquarters, but that day caution had evidently been thrown to the winds because the ground troops were taking a beating. Unexpectedly, Masha Dolina’s 587 Heavy Bomber Regiment, recently renamed 125 Guards Regiment, was ordered to bomb Height 101 in the village of Krymsk on the Taman peninsula. “The damnable height had already twice changed hands” that day and failure to hold it was preventing the infantry from going on the offensive. A group of nine aircraft was led that day by Yevgenia Timofeyeva, and Senior Lieutenant Masha Dolina led the left flight.
They flew at an altitude of 1,000 meters instead of the usual 2,000, under the lower edge of the cloud cover. Height 101 greeted the squadron with “a solid wall of flak.” All around them there opened up “the white and black flowerheads of exploding shells, like a forest of giant dandelions.” Piloting heavy bombers called for strong nerves. In close formation it was almost impossible to take evasive action, and you could not turn back until you had completed your mission. Such a large machine was an inviting target for enemy gunfire and the pilot had to put her trust in luck and the aircraft’s armor. Masha’s plane was playing up. One of the engines started cutting out just as they reached the target. The bomber had a bias to one side and began falling behind. Masha’s wingman did not abandon her, but also reduced speed and stayed on her tail. She had taken a hit from an anti-aircraft shell. The crew felt only a slight bump at the time, and realized what had happened only when the left engine began to smoke. They were minutes away from the target, but every second seemed like an eternity. “The sound of my heart beating filled the cockpit, blocking all the sounds of war from outside.” Summoning all her willpower, Masha waited for the navigator’s command. Finally it came: “Dive!” The bombs were released and the Pe-2 jerked upward. Masha clearly saw columns of smoke and fire down below where their bombs had fallen on the German troop formations.
Heading for home, she realized they would not make it back to the airfield. With only one engine the aircraft was losing height. “Commander, I see Messers,” she heard her gunner, Ivan Solyonov, warn. There was no sign of their fighter escort: somewhere in the clouds above, abandoning the crippled Pe-2, they had a battle of their own to fight. Vanya and Galya Dzhunkovskaya were firing at the fighters, but were no match for them. The other two aircraft of her flight, providing cover to the rear, had also been damaged. Masha Kirillova had flown on to catch up with the main group, but the second slave, Tonya Skoblikova, stayed with Masha, trying to provide cover even though her own fuel tank had been punctured and petrol was streaming from it. The left wing of Masha’s bomber was on fire now, but she hoped somehow to make it back over the front line.
They were out of ammunition, and a German fighter flew right up alongside, so that Masha could see the pilot’s face. Laughing, he showed her first one finger, then two. Later, in the hospital, Soviet fighter pilots told her he was asking whether she would prefer to be shot down with one approach or two. Masha’s second engine caught fire and, hoping to blow out the flames, she went into a dive. They were nearing Russian anti-aircraft guns and the German fell back.
Miraculously, their burning plane managed to limp over the front line of the River Kuban and land. The plane was on fire but the escape hatch had jammed. Smoke was clouding their eyes and choking them, and the inferno was coming closer. They were frantic, beating their heads against the immovable hatch. With hundreds of liters of fuel on board, the plane was likely to explode at any moment. They were saved by the wounded Ivan, who forced the hatch open with a screwdriver. He dragged Masha out, then Galya, whose flying suit was already on fire. She fell to the ground and began rolling to put it out, but Ivan shouted, “Galya! Masha! For fuck’s sake, move it, will you? She’s going to blow up!” Ivan, “Solyonchik” as Masha called him affectionately, a simple, very young boy, counted fifty-one steps as he ran before the plane blew up behind them and chunks of aircraft flew through the air. The men from the anti-aircraft battery ran to help and drove them to the field hospital, wounded, burned, but alive. Although Masha Dolina was born in December, after this escape she made sure she celebrated a second birthday every year in early summer on the day she scored a victory over death.
In 1941, Nikolai Baranov had given Masha leave to visit her family just before their village was occupied by the Germans. In 1943, as Soviet troops were advancing, driving the Germans out of the Ukraine, his successor, Commander Markov, already known as “Batya” himself, promised Masha leave again when Mikhailovka was liberated.456 The news came while she was still in the hospital. She knew nothing of the fate of her family, whom she had been completely unable to support during those two years of occupation.
Over that period, prevented from sending them money, she had saved up 19,000 rubles, a bigger sum than she had ever seen before in her life. (The pilots were financially rewarded both for successful combat missions, and for bringing back their planes in one piece.) After receiving the cash, a pile of 190 hundred-ruble banknotes, Masha was perplexed as to how to transport it. First she stuffed as many as she could into her map case and pockets, and wrapped some in paper and shoved them inside her tunic. These preparations were watched by the regimental doctor and Yevgenia Timofeyeva, who said nothing at first, but then asked, “Are you crazy? The first train you board you’ll get your bags stolen and your pockets picked!”
The doctor, Maria Ivanovna, brought some wide bandages and a needle and thread. “Okay, spin round, beautiful!” They sewed banknotes into the bandages and wrapped them round Masha. She soon had reason to be grateful to them, because her map case with 4,000 rubles was stolen from her in the crush at the platform.
At one of the stations, she bought gifts. “A headscarf for my mum, a hat for Vera, scarves and tunics for the boys.” She finally reached home, but the dugout was empty. Inside “everything had been turned upside down and there was not a soul to be seen.” Her heart sank. The neighbors said her family were in a nearby village, and there Masha found them, desperately thin, pale, and exhausted. Her parents had aged as if an eternity had passed. Her mother wailed and rushed to embrace Masha, as her father chided, “She’s alive, for heaven’s sake. Why are you wailing as if she was dead?” His hair had gone completely gray and tears coursed down the deep wrinkles on his cheeks.