(Text: Michael Wegerich, published in: DHS No. 6)
The mission
I was still a young major and had been commander of the 2nd squadron of fighter wing JG-1 at Holzdorf for less than a year when the Chief of the Air Force/Air Defence gave the order: "In summer 1986, as part of an exercise, the 2nd squadron of JG-1 is to deploy to Astrakhan with 12 MiG-21 fighters and carry out live firing there against La-17 targets with guided infrared missiles in the stratosphere and at the lower operating altitude of the radar, by day and by night".
Taking part in live firing was a highlight for everyone, as it meant proving, by destroying a manoeuvring, remote-controlled La-17 target with guided missiles under radio and radar jamming, that the pilot, the squadron or the wing had the required level of training. Live firing at real targets in the Soviet Union was part of the training programme for units and formations of the East German Air Force. At intervals of several years, each fighter wing, alone or together with a SAM unit, had to prove its ability to destroy real air targets with live weapons. For this, the pilots were flown to Astrakhan and familiarised with Soviet MiGs. The live firing took place with the fighters and missiles provided on site. In other words, a defective aircraft, a defective missile or a torn gun camera film was not the fault of the German side. Only the performance of the individual pilot counted.
But we were the first MiG-21 fighter squadron to have to deploy to Astrakhan, 3300 km to the east, with our own fighters, our own armament and equipment, technical, flying and fighter control personnel. And here it was not the performance of an individual that was to count, but the performance of the entire team involved in destroying an air target, from the NCO and officer of the technical personnel through the fighter controller to the pilot. The overall assessment of the wing included the number of targets shot down, the number of fighters employed and missiles fired, the quality of fighter control, the command cycle and the appropriateness and correctness of the decisions of the wing leadership at the command post.
We, the 2nd fighter squadron, were indeed the wing's deployment squadron, i.e. in an emergency we had to deploy about 40 km to the field airfield at Luckau with 12 MiG-21SPS fighters, refuel and arm the aircraft and man them with pilots for the next take-off. A standard time of 180 minutes was laid down from the assignment of the task to the establishment of combat readiness of the fighters at the new location. A second set of ground equipment, already loaded on trailers, was available for this. That we could achieve combat readiness at a field airfield 40–80 km from the main base with 12 aircraft within the specified time, we had already proved in exercises, even at night and in bad weather. But a deployment over 3000 km, combined with establishing combat readiness at the new location, was a completely new task for us.
By our criteria, only a few pilots in the squadron had the prerequisites for destroying La-17 air targets in the stratosphere and at low operating altitude under radio and radar jamming, in all weather conditions, by day and by night, as the squadron consisted mainly of young pilots (25 to 27 years old) without sufficient exercise experience. In other words, with the current squadron structure and without thorough preparation, the task could not be accomplished successfully.
The preparation
Long before the order was officially given, at a time when the first information about plans to deploy our MiG-21s to Astrakhan for live firing became known in the wing, preparation had already begun – namely the selection of the aircraft best suited for the various tasks. Decisive for engaging air targets was timely detection and the earliest possible transition to target tracking with the on-board radar. We found that some radars gave good results in the stratosphere but worked poorly at low altitude, others showed little ground clutter at low operating altitude but detected targets at high altitude only at short range. Some radars were mediocre at all altitudes, others less good, although all sights had been adjusted within the permissible tolerances. The task now was to find the aircraft of the entire wing best suited for low-altitude and stratospheric employment and the most reliable in terms of failure rate. Every single mission of every aircraft was documented and evaluated. Detection and lock-on ranges at various altitudes and the calculated firing zones were analysed. Both flying and closing speeds and the weather conditions were taken into account in the evaluation. After almost a year, the flying department had enough material to identify the best radars, and the wing's chief engineer had the failure statistics of all aircraft. So we were able to select the best from over 50 aircraft of the wing. We went one step further. We examined the radar with the best values in the stratosphere and the best at low operating altitude. Using these two as models, the radars intended specifically for stratospheric employment and specifically for low-altitude employment were readjusted. So we had the most reliable aircraft with top values for the respective task. But that was not all.
All 12 aircraft were withdrawn from flight operations in good time, thoroughly overhauled and repainted. The aircraft prepared in this way were a joy; they looked like new and flew like new, although some aircraft were almost as old as our youngest pilots. At one of the stopover airfields in the Soviet Union, one of us was asked by a Su-24 pilot whether our MiGs were the most modern and what modification this was, as he had never seen aircraft like ours before. No wonder – he was much too young to know our old MiGs, and no Soviet pilot could really guess that our factory-fresh-looking aircraft were already 18 years old, since their own not very old aircraft already looked somewhat more used. As the crew chiefs were tied to their aircraft, the aircraft exchange brought me not only the best aircraft into the squadron but also new technicians. Because we also wanted to be able to carry out major repairs at Astrakhan, on the wing commander's orders additional personnel from the maintenance squadron were transferred to the squadron 6 weeks before the deployment. We could make good use of the additional personnel in the extensive preparatory work. The restructuring of my technical personnel was completed with the move of the new and old personnel into and out of our squadron building. As not all pilots of my squadron had the appropriate qualifications, the young pilots had to be replaced by pilots from the other two squadrons. So the 2nd squadron received a structure of flying personnel consisting of another squadron commander, who was placed under my command for the purposes of the live firing, three political officers (deputy squadron commanders for political work), my deputy for flying training, flight commanders from all three squadrons and five more pilots from my squadron. This structure, however, was only adopted a few weeks before the deployment, after every pilot had also qualified in the corresponding training flights. Training flights began 2–3 months before the deployment – flights with the task planned for each individual at Astrakhan, but at a much higher level of difficulty than we knew from previous live firings. The pilots acting as targets were allowed to fly everything we expected from an La-17. Above all, the target was to fly abrupt and unexpected manoeuvres. Only the specified altitude band – the stratosphere or low operating altitude – had to be maintained. Besides two simulated shots, the pilot's tactical behaviour and radio procedure and the time taken to close on the target were assessed (in the interest of surprising the target, short closing times, i.e. high closing speeds, were required). The demands were high. Everyone was under a certain pressure to succeed. Anyone who failed once or twice, did not achieve the required parameters or did not produce a good gun camera film was labelled mediocre or weak and was no longer among the nominees. During the preparatory flights, the flight data recorders and gun camera films were evaluated and assessed not by the squadron but by the flying department of the staff, to ensure objective evaluation and rule out manipulation.
Violations of rules and safety regulations were also punished more severely during the preparatory phase.
Only a few of those originally intended for the live firing had to drop out of the preparation because their quality was not yet sufficient.
While we in the squadron were flying our preparatory flights, calculations and drawings were being made at headquarters, especially by the navigator of the flying department.
The planned route was now known, so navigational preparation could begin. We could not choose the stopover airfields ourselves; instead, based on the range of the MiG-21SPS and in coordination with the leadership of the Soviet Air Force, the route in two variants and the corresponding stopover and alternate airfields were laid down via the command of the East German Air Force and the 1st Air Defence Division. Airfields where the most modern or secret equipment was based were off-limits to us. A landing at these airfields would have been the last landing of a flying career. So the alternate airfields were not always the nearest ones.
The planned route in the main variant led from Holzdorf via the stopover airfields Preschen (JG-3 near the Polish border), Chernyany (in Ukraine near the city of Lvov), Starokonstantinov (near the city of Zhitomir), Kramatorsk (near the city of Donetsk), Salsk (in Russia) to Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea.
In the area of the Dnieper and the Donets basin there were magnetic variations greater than 15 degrees – unusually high for us. Our navigation equipment was quite simple. We had a gyro compass, a radio compass and the stopwatch. We had to assume that we would have to find and land at the airfields without much ground support, without large fuel reserves and in difficult weather conditions (under instrument flight rules). That is why the wing's navigator, supported by the squadron and the division, prepared the route and fuel calculations, the approach procedures at the stopover airfields and special emergency procedures in case of navigation equipment failure. It was not easy to obtain sufficient data such as landing headings, frequencies and approach procedures for the stopover and alternate airfields. There were no publications on this. Such data were generally SECRET.
For the 14 pilots who were to ferry the 12 combat aircraft (MiG-21SPS) and the two-seater (MiG-21UM) to Astrakhan, a familiarisation flight along the planned route was organised in a Tu-134 from Holzdorf to beyond the Dnieper with a stopover in Kiev. As cloudless skies and good visibility prevailed almost all the way, we could memorise prominent landmarks and navigation aids. But above all, the Tu crew and the wing's navigator checked the radio and radio navigation aids. Not all of those we were counting on were working or could be received reliably. After the flight I had the feeling that we would have to expect some surprises when ferrying our fighters and that we would be well advised to look for further navigation aids and options. At the end of the navigational preparation we had two maps with a total length of 4 m. Our route on the maps was 3.3 m long, corresponding to 3300 km. For each landing and alternate airfield we had A4 sheets with the landing procedures in the main and secondary landing directions for simple and difficult weather conditions (for visual and instrument approaches). I already felt like a paper merchant. Where to stow all these documents within reach in our small cockpit? Added to that were tables of call signs for civil and military control centres and other documents.
In the squadron, however, not only the technical and flying personnel were involved in the preparation, but also those responsible for what everyone takes for granted: accommodation, food and travel documents. The squadron chief of staff and his first sergeant were busy preparing visa applications for over 120 men, writing deployment orders and duty rosters, and organising accommodation and catering. The latter was done in cooperation with the wing's operations department and the higher staffs, with the squadron bearing the main burden of the work.
In 1986 we were in the second year of the "sukhoy zakon", the "dry law" (since 1985 alcohol had been banned in the Soviet armed forces even off duty, and public sale of alcohol was severely restricted). That is why the wing commander forbade taking alcohol along (he certainly meant taking alcohol for personal consumption – at any rate that is how the order was understood by the squadron leadership). I passed the order on to the squadron.
However, the wing leadership had said nothing about the kind of guest gifts. I believe they had not thought of such a thing either. Based on my experience with the "Russian soul", I recommended taking guest gifts in 0.7- or 1-litre bottles, among other things. The squadron's chief engineer had 45 litres of pure alcohol prepared for the deployment to top up the de-icing system of the MiG-21SPS (at temperatures of plus 20–30°C on the ground in the Astrakhan desert).
As we found out later, these preparatory measures did not adversely affect the results of the live firing.
The deployment
The preparatory work for the deployment was completed on schedule. The pilots had finished their preparatory and training flights. All route documents for the individual deployment legs had been prepared, the flying equipment had been checked and was serviceable, and unusual flight situations had been rehearsed and agreed.
The wing commander had drilled, trained and rehearsed the command cycle for engaging air targets in repelling air strikes, and the actions in other combat situations, with the fighter controllers and the other command post personnel almost to the point of exhaustion.
The 13 MiGs had passed through the maintenance squadron and now stood freshly painted and combat-ready in the squadron dispersal area. The technical personnel had prepared the ground equipment needed for the deployment for air transport. Almost a month earlier, a military train had left for Astrakhan with personnel as an advance party, spare parts, ground equipment, missiles, food and other supplies.
This personnel had the task of preparing accommodation, a kitchen, a technical base at Astrakhan airfield and the start of flight operations.
The journey of this military train over 3000 km to the east was an adventure with obstacles in itself. Deep in Russia, military plans and agreements with the authorities did not always apply – other laws did. With the help of a bottle of vodka or de-icing fluid, many a stop signal turned green and many a set of points was set correctly.
The advance party had established readiness to receive us. The deployment could begin.
One night, in the early morning (nobody knew the exact time in advance), the horn sounded in our homes and the siren wailed from the wing. Combat alert!
20 minutes later I had manned the squadron command post and taken command. The chief of staff and the squadron's chief engineer had already taken up their posts. The technical personnel were at the aircraft or at assigned posts. The pilots received their flying equipment, code card and pistol and hurried to the aircraft assigned to them the day before and fully armed.
In the hardened aircraft shelters the generators supplying direct current for starting the engines were already running. 30 minutes after the alert, the last pilot reported readiness state 1, i.e. he sits strapped into the MiG, ready to start the engine. A short time later the order came from the wing command post: "Pilots get out, unload missiles". After this order had been carried out, we already heard the aircraft of the other squadrons taking off to repel the air enemy. Other wings or aircraft of the Soviet Air Force were used as the air enemy. At this point we received the order "to deploy with 12 MiG-21SPS aircraft to Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea and establish combat readiness in the shortest possible time". As the deployment squadron, we had practised deploying with the entire squadron from Holzdorf to the Alteno field airfield near Luckau, 40 km to the east. Three hours after receiving the task we were combat-ready with 12 MiG-21s and a small technical advance party at the field airfield, which until then had not been manned (only guarded) (i.e. aircraft refuelled, armed, pilot strapped in and ready to start). We had always accomplished this task, even at night.
But the deployment ahead of us now was anything but routine.
There was as yet no experience of MiG-21 deployments over such great distances.
Meanwhile two An-26s had landed. The ground equipment and deployment kit were loaded. We, i.e. the 12 squadron pilots in MiG-21SPS, the wing commander and the division navigator in the MiG-21UM two-seater, first flew to the Polish border, to JG-3 at Preschen, to spend the night there. We had escaped the hustle and bustle of the combat alert and still had a few hours to relax, as the actual deployment began the next morning. We deployed to one of the easternmost NVA airfields in order to reach the stopover airfield of Chernyany in Ukraine from there directly without a stopover in Poland. According to our fuel calculation, we would have had no fuel reserve at Chernyany if we had taken off from Holzdorf. So we played it safe, took off from Preschen and thus shortened the route to Chernyany by more than 100 km.
The next morning we had the best deployment weather. Sunshine, low cumulus clouds with little coverage and a light westerly wind. The meteorologist forecast a rain front coming from the west for Preschen in the course of the day. That did not bother us, as we were flying away from the front to the east. At the morning "final briefing" we took in every word. Everyone was serious and calm. I had a little stage fright. Questions went through my head. What would await us in Ukraine? Was our fuel calculation correct? Was the route calculation correct? What would the weather really be like at Chernyany at landing time? The forecast for it was very vague. What would radio communication be like? What were the conditions at the alternate airfields in Ukraine? Were our data for the airfields correct and up to date?
I calmed down, because we, above all the wing's navigator, had checked everything several times.
The two-seater, the MiG-21UM, took off first. At intervals of 10 minutes each, three flights (flight – four-ship formation) of MiG-21SPS followed. I led the 2nd flight. After taking off in pairs (pair – two-ship formation), we climbed as a flight in open battle formation (route formation) to the ordered altitude (10,600 m). After some time we left the frequency of the Preschen command post and I reported the flight to Warsaw Control. They only answered: "Vypolnyay po planu" – fly according to plan. The flight east to the Ukrainian border was calm, rather boring. The fuel calculation was good – we had a little more than calculated, so additional reserves. As we approached the Ukrainian border, radio traffic on the frequency became more and more intense. We were on channel 5, the ferry channel. We heard Soviet Air Force transports and bombers on the radio with such a density of radio commands that we thought we would not understand commands addressed to us or answers from the ground. But then I heard a clear, loud voice calling my call sign in Russian and clearing the flight to descend. The weather was very good and we had enough fuel for a flypast to break formation. Now on channel 1, the standard take-off and landing channel, I asked the Chernyany flying control officer for permission to approach for the break. The low-level approach was approved. We took up a nice close formation. Visibility was good, and I could already see the airfield from over 10 km away. Somewhat high-spirited, I went down almost to the height of the row of poplars (20 m) that stood a few hundred metres before the runway and approached the airfield at 600 km/h.
Exactly over the runway we broke into a fan and landed. On the ground the wing commander was already waiting for us and greeted us with harsh criticism, threatening to remove us from the deployment the next time we flew low without his permission. Just as we had to listen to our dressing-down, we saw a pair of Su-24s even lower than the poplars. They had to pull up briefly to get over the poplars. But right away they were back down at 5–10 m. Right in front of us they banked and broke up the pair. It looked gigantic to see these 40-tonne aircraft so low and fast. We were impressed, and apparently so was our commander, because he broke off his criticism and seemed relaxed and cheerful again. When the last flight had landed, a bus took us to the aircrew canteen. There a nice second breakfast of Ukrainian cuisine awaited us, with fruit that was rarely available at home.
The first leg had been completed. After the meal it was time to wait. The preparation of the aircraft by our technical personnel of the 1st advance party had long been completed. But at first the Soviet side did not give us clearance for the onward flight. The 2nd advance party, coming from Holzdorf in the 2nd An-26, had landed at Starokonstantinov and was waiting for us. The first An-26 wanted to fly on to Kramatorsk with the 1st advance party. But everything was waiting. After our liaison officers from the Air Force command, who had made the agreements and arrangements with the Russian authorities and the military offices of the Soviet Air Force when planning the deployment, finally had contact with the local military air traffic control offices, preparation for the next leg got moving. We received final instructions from a representative of the staff of the Su-24 wing. We took over our aircraft and taxied for take-off in the same order as at Preschen. While taxiing to take-off I was startled to see a hole several metres across in the taxiway and an excavator busily digging and spreading stones and gravel over the narrow remaining concrete surface. I warned the pilots following me, opened the throttle once more, and then rolled over the gravel and grit at idle with a bit of momentum, so as not to suck foreign objects into the engine. I was still worried about my tyres. Hopefully there was nothing pointed or sharp-edged here. By NVA standards such a thing was unthinkable, as the flight operating areas were swept and cleaned before every flying day, and woe betide anyone if there was a pebble or a screw lying around.
The take-off was normal, and we were climbing in open battle formation in echelon left to 8100 m when we were warned "a big one from left to right". I looked left and saw nothing at first, but then, behind and to the left, I saw a Tu-154 a few metres lower and less than 300 metres away coming towards our flight. My wingman and I had already passed the Tu-154's flight path, but of the 2nd pair, one pushed his aircraft down and flew under the Tu, the other pulled up with afterburner and flew over the Tu. The aircraft flew right through our formation. Normally a reportable incident. Our flight parameters corresponded exactly to those cleared by the ground station. I reported the incident to the control centre straight away on the radio. But there everything was received calmly. This was not to be the last contact with an airliner, however. On another leg, when we were being directed by a military control centre where an officer from our advance party was sitting, I even received the warning in German: "Note: in 2–3 minutes encounter with a big one on opposite course at the same altitude; we can't get any other altitudes for you". I switched the radar to transmit, but the screen was black. Then I again saw a Tu-154 in Aeroflot colours only a few hundred metres to the right flying towards the second pair on an opposite course at the same altitude. We were flying in echelon right. Fortunately the 2nd pair had sufficient vertical separation, so that the Tu passed over the 4th MiG with about 50–100 m height difference. I was slowly getting the impression that such events were normal in this country, as the Soviet ground stations always remained calm.
On this leg, flying entirely in Soviet airspace, we had to deal with something unfamiliar for which we were poorly prepared. We were largely directed by civil control centres, and the procedure for handing over to the next control centre was different from the usual practice with military control centres. It seemed to me that the civil control centres had no ground link with each other, so that before leaving the area of responsibility of the old control centre we had to contact the new one ourselves and report this to the old one. Only then did we receive permission to leave the area of responsibility and the frequency of the old control centre. The exchange in Russian differed considerably from the military commands. I almost slept through the first change of control centre because I had not fully understood the procedure. Even worse off was the flight commander of the last flight, flying 150 km behind me. Unlike us formation leaders flying ahead, he had not studied or spent a long time in the Soviet Union, so his experience with the Russian language was limited. The civil ground stations spoke fast, indistinctly and a lot. I heard him being called several times without reacting. I already thought he had a radio failure. When I called him in German, the answer came promptly. I told him which control centre was calling and what he had to answer. After this new experience the flight went routinely, and after less than an hour's flying time we were able to land at Starokonstantinov. Su-24s were also based here, and we found ourselves in the middle of a bomber exercise. We learned that the bomber wing had been alerted and had to deploy in its entirety. We heard individual aircraft or small groups starting their engines. Everything here seemed to us to happen without haste, rather in slow motion. When we as a fighter wing left the airfield in our entirety, it took 8–10 minutes from the alert to the lift-off of the last aircraft, and here an eternity passed before such a bomber began to taxi. Our aircraft had meanwhile been prepared and the planned take-off time was getting ever closer. After start-up we immediately received permission to taxi and rolled right into the middle of a group of Su-24s. Bombers ahead of us, Su-24s behind me, and they came rolling out of their shelters from all sides. Suddenly a Su came from the right out of a dispersal area. Then I heard in Russian: "Go ahead, little one, I'll give you right of way". We now taxied mixed, MiG and Su, onto the runway. There the Soviet pilots let us go ahead and line up in take-off position. We showed them two nice pair take-offs. Ahead of us lay the longest leg, almost 1000 km, 768 km from one turning point to the next towards Kramatorsk, right over the Kremenchug reservoir. It was about 200 km long and 40 km wide. Now I knew why we had to wear life belts (similar to life jackets, only more comfortable) on this cross-country flight.
Visibility was very good. The reservoir with its islands and the Dnieper were good landmarks, so that even without a compass I could fly exactly on the line of the map lying on my knee. As we approached the Donets basin, the settlement became so dense that I could not tell one town from another. But the radio compass needle guided us exactly to Kramatorsk. Dense industrial haze lay over the area around Kramatorsk, and I was worried about the visibility and the low fuel reserve. Kramatorsk had an easterly landing direction, so we broke up the flight already on the approach and landed individually straight in.
We had now covered more than two thirds of the total distance to the Volga. It was now evening, and we took the opportunity to rest in the hotel in town. Over a joint dinner, experiences were exchanged. After a glass of sparkling wine to celebrate the successful end of the first day of the deployment, we went to bed early, as we wanted to continue our deployment well rested.
The next day the sky was overcast. The front forecast for Preschen the day before was soon to reach us here too. We were briefed very extensively on the peculiarities of the next two legs. A weather reconnaissance flight was even flown for us with a Su-15. Afterwards we were told that the ground navigation and air traffic control aids were working reliably. The meteorologist forecast the rain front with light drizzle in 2 hours. Shortly after the briefing the first pilots went to their aircraft, and it was already starting to drizzle. After the first aircraft had taken off, the drizzle turned into heavy rain. We ran to the aircraft and, without taking over the aircraft (the prescribed walk-around check), climbed into the cockpit and closed the canopy immediately. The rain had turned into a heavy downpour. The technicians were soaked to the skin. Just opening the canopy briefly to climb in had let so much water into the cockpit that it stood on the glass of the horizontally mounted instruments, so they could not be read. The canopy had misted up on the inside. After start-up I immediately set the cockpit environmental system to hot. The windscreen cleared and I slowly dried off. After taxiing out of the line I had to taxi at walking pace, because in the downpour I could only see a few metres. A MiG has no windscreen wipers, after all. To my surprise we were given permission to taxi onto the runway. The weather was getting worse and worse. I expected the deployment to be called off; instead we were instructed to take off individually and fly in radar trail (contact with the leader by means of the radar). I was at the far left edge of the runway, my wingman on the right. After the afterburner lit, I began my take-off roll. Forward visibility was zero. I oriented myself only by the transition from the concrete of the runway to the grass rushing past 2–3 metres beside me. I lifted off, operated the gear lever, and when I looked out I could no longer see the ground, and I was not even 10 m up. I concentrated on the flight instruments and climbed exactly with the specified flight parameters. My wingman, who had also taken off, reported that he had no radar contact with me. I reported altitude and speed, and he constantly received the distance to me from the control tower. 5 km, optimal, but he could not see me. I switched my radar to transmit. The screen was full of blips – nothing but clutter. Not a good sign. On the radio I heard very frequent crackling, as in a thunderstorm. As altitude increased it became darker and darker, as in late dusk, when a glaring flash of lightning tore through the darkness. Turbulence began and I heard noises as if someone were emptying a bucket of gravel over the canopy. I realised we were in a thunderstorm. The turbulence was so violent that alternately the canopy hit my helmet and the seat hit my backside. I thought I heard creaking and grinding in the airframe. I had never felt so uncomfortable on any flight before, nor did I afterwards. Suddenly it was all over. Blue sky, a completely calm aircraft, the engine humming away as always, everything working normally. One after the other, the three pilots of my flight reported contact with me and we closed up into open battle formation. I was relieved. We did not even notice that we had already flown over the Don shortly before it flows into the Sea of Azov. In the most beautiful weather we landed at Salsk. With the experience we had gathered on the previous legs, the last leg of over 500 km to Astrakhan seemed uncomplicated to us. Long before Astrakhan the ground became sand-coloured. From altitude the landscape looked like a desert, sparsely populated. On the horizon we could already see the great Volga delta and the coast of the Caspian Sea. Astrakhan could not be missed – the only large city in the area. At the airfield west of the Volga the advance parties were waiting for us. We had made it. Our MiG-21SPS of JG-1 were the first NVA MiG-21s to land on the Volga, without failures or technical problems and "without incidents worth mentioning".
The live firing
Before we were allowed to fly with live missiles against the La-17, two more examinations had to be passed, a theoretical and a practical one. Both were preceded by appropriate training.
Russian instructors briefed us on the arrival and departure procedures of Astrakhan airfield, the alternate airfields intended for us and the usual standard routes. We had to learn frequencies, radio channels and call signs. The flying and operating area and the firing range were presented. The meteorologist told us about the special weather conditions in the flying area and warned of dangerous weather phenomena such as sandstorms. Their effect on flying and landing conditions and the necessary actions were unknown to us from flying at home.
Every single stage of engaging the La-17, safety regulations and actions in special flight situations were rehearsed theoretically. For this a "rayon garden" was used, an open-air area the size of a volleyball court. The map of the flying area with the airfields, the boundary of the operating area and the firing range was painted on the ground. In this rayon garden, everyone walked through his flights and special cases with an aircraft model in his hand under the guidance of the Soviet instructors.
Finally we learned the sequence and rules of flight operations in this Soviet training wing, to which we had to subordinate ourselves.
The lessons and all the training were held in Russian. But very few had the language skills to understand everything. The navigator of the 1st Air Defence Division, who accompanied us on the deployment, and a liaison officer to the Soviet armed forces from the NVA Air Force command, both graduates of the Soviet Air Force Academy, took turns acting as interpreters. The one-week theoretical training ended with an oral examination for each pilot, fighter controller and landing controller. An occasionally incorrect answer to the Russian examiners' questions was, however, translated in such a way that everyone passed.
The technical personnel used the days to establish operational and repair readiness. A technical area with the necessary command links had been set up. All the necessary spare parts and supplies were ready. The first flights everyone had to complete were area familiarisation flights by day and by night. These were flights through the operating and flying area on specified standard routes. There were few landmarks in the airspace. To the south the Caspian Sea reflected the sun. The prominent coastline offered good orientation if you flew that far south. To the west the broad band of the Volga cut through the sandy yellow desert landscape. 300 km north of Astrakhan you flew over an east-west railway line with a small station. Otherwise there was only yellow-brown, uninhabited landscape as far as the horizon. Only the Volga delta and the city of Astrakhan with the airfield to its west were a prominent area. At night you saw the shining starry sky and beneath the aircraft an endlessly large black hole. Only the brightly lit city on the Volga stood out from the darkness of the desert for hundreds of kilometres.
Now that we had familiarised ourselves with the airspace and the flying rules in the area, the check phase began. In this phase the squadron, flying, technical and fighter control personnel were tested on their ability to protect a designated object against strikes, attacks and reconnaissance from the air under radio and radar jamming. For this, the Soviet pilots, acting as our targets, attacked a ground object. Our task was to destroy the air targets in simulation before they reached the maximum possible launch range of their assumed air-to-ground weapons. We did not know the exact time and direction of the attack, nor their tactics. So we went on standby in good time.
I was sitting in the cockpit of my MiG-21, strapped in and ready to start, when I heard the aircraft of the Soviet wing taking off. An An-12 with strange antennas on its fuselage taxied to the runway. That was the aircraft that was to jam our radio and radar. But we had two more enemies: sand and heat.
A light wind – at temperatures above 35°C – sent thistles rolling across the flightline and clouds of sand drifting over the aircraft. There was sand everywhere in the aircraft, in the cockpit, in the nozzle, in the intake and in many seals. The technical personnel had their hands full keeping the aircraft serviceable. The heat on top of that troubled not only us. Cooling of the electrical equipment, above all the radio and radar equipment, was no longer fully ensured on the ground. The operating time of this equipment on the ground was reduced to a minimum. The radio was switched on shortly before taxiing to the runway, and the radar only after take-off. And yet some aircraft still suffered malfunctions due to overheating. After take-off all my equipment was working normally. I flew towards the readiness zone, from where I was to be called to intercept an air target. Before I had even fully reached the readiness zone, the guidance process began. The fighter controller directed me on a south-easterly heading over the Caspian Sea. He ordered me to turn north and a little later north-west. I recognised a target blip on the screen, but still far outside the permitted firing range.
At 800 km/h at about 3000 m I was not closing on the target. On the contrary, the target was moving away from me quickly and flying towards the ordered destruction line. The target had to be destroyed by then. I had no time to think. I engaged the afterburner and let my MiG "run". I soon reached 1000 km/h, but still no closure on the target. Now I understood: this was a target trying to evade the fighters' attacks at high speed. I had expected violent manoeuvres or sophisticated tactics, but not the high target speed. To engage the target in time, I had to fly supersonic at low altitude. To do so I had to overcome my scruples, because in daily training at the home wing supersonic flight below 10 km was forbidden. Below me there was only uninhabited land. I left the afterburner "on" and accelerated further. The forces on the control stick changed increasingly. Without retrimming, the altitude could hardly be held. I was in the transonic "spoon" – the stick-force reversal typical of the transonic range. At over 1200 km/h I closed on the target. The target was locked. My sight was working in tracking mode when the target blip on the screen began to jump violently. Shortly before reaching firing range, the blip vibrated and shook. How was I to aim? I held the centre of the vibration within the 17.5-mil circle, was within firing range and finally heard the tone of the training missile. It had locked onto the target. I reported the launch and pressed the trigger. As I broke off the attack, I saw the target visually. It was a MiG-23. Its faded yellow-brown camouflage against the background of the sandy desert hid the aircraft from a fighter pilot's eyes for a very long time.
The test had been passed – for my technician, who provided me with a combat-ready aircraft in time, for my fighter controller, who guided me very precisely to the air target, and for me, as I was able to use my missile successfully in simulation before the target crossed the ordered destruction line.
On the evening after this check phase, on the advice of a Russian instructor, I went with him and selected officers of my squadron to the head of the evaluation centre. We did not come empty-handed but thanked him with our "liquid" guest gifts for the "objective" assessment of our flights.
That evening, misunderstandings in the firing evaluation were cleared up, friendships were made, and I was now sure: every one of my pilots had passed the check phase and was admitted to live firing.
After a period of detailed preparation, planning and cockpit training, the day had come when nothing was simulated and every La-17 shot down counted. An aircraft not combat-ready, a defective missile, a guidance error by the fighter controller or a control or operating error by the pilot could jeopardise the mission. Only if this chain of action worked, i.e. if every single member of the squadron did high-quality work, could the mission – destroying 5 La-17s under radio and radar jamming by day and by night in all weather conditions – be accomplished.
After the final briefing – as we went to the aircraft – I was already somewhat nervous. I was aware of how many people my success depended on. What if I made a mistake? I would not only disappoint everyone, but also lose my role model status as squadron commander. So it was a matter of carrying out all actions and tasks calmly, with concentration and level-headedness, as prepared.
I was the first to take off to shoot down the La-17. Two more aircraft were to follow me initially to complete the mission if I failed. And should we together not succeed in shooting down the La-17, units of a SAM regiment exercising 200 km to the north at Ashuluk were ready to destroy the target. But they were not to get the chance.
I had taken over my MiG-21SPS. It was 560, with two live R-3S missiles (AA-2 in NATO code). Clean and in the best state of maintenance, the aircraft was just waiting to be started. As I taxied to the runway, the La-17, my target, had already been launched. I was so concentrated that I hardly noticed. The Lavochkin's launch site was not far from our runway, and the smoke of the booster rockets could be seen from afar.
After take-off I climbed to 13,000 m, took up the ordered attack heading of 065 degrees and, on orders from the control centre, accelerated to Mach 1.4. Everything as prepared. I was expecting the target assignment to the La-17 flying at 12,000 m. Instead I heard a Russian command in an agitated voice: "Swift right turn, heading 110, speed Mach 1.2". A few moments later, after I had reported taking up the flight parameters, I received "left turn onto heading 010". That was not a good sign. Such rapid and large changes of direction at supersonic speed were hardly feasible and cost a lot of fuel. I pushed the throttle to maximum afterburner and hauled the aircraft round with steep bank so that I hardly lost any speed. On heading 010 I reduced the afterburner to minimum to save fuel and not become too fast. I was expecting target assignment, but the control centre remained silent. Then at last the first command: "Target dead ahead, range 18 km", seconds later "15 km". My radar screen was black; no target blip could be seen. Soon I heard "range 13 km" and shortly afterwards "11 km". My screen was still black. I had a bad feeling. I was racing supersonic towards the target without seeing it. I knew that when I acquired the target I would have little time to react and aim. Nothing was as prepared any more. I remembered that the Russian instructor had said during a break that with good visibility and some luck the La-17 could be seen at altitude from 10 km. So I searched the airspace visually and glanced briefly at the screen in the hope of still spotting the target. Suddenly I saw a "fly speck" at the top left of the canopy. On closer inspection I recognised the La-17 with a very short contrail. The target was flying two to three thousand metres higher and was about 30 to 40 degrees to my left. I selected maximum afterburner and turned left towards the target in a slight climbing turn. My MiG accelerated even in the banked climb. Now I reported "target in sight" to the command post, took the control stick between my knees and switched with both hands at the same time – on the right the "guided missile launch" switch, on the left the "airstart" switch as a precaution against an engine failure when the missile was launched. Then I took hold of the stick again and reversed my bank to the right.
I put the fixed reticle of the optical sight on the target. This also put the target on the radar screen and allowed me to determine the range. I was just short of the permitted launch range. I quickly had to interrogate the target with IFF. When the symbol of an enemy became visible on the screen, I waited another 2.5–3 seconds so that the sight camera – still working in photo mode – could take a picture of it before I switched to tracking. The radar worked reliably, switched to tracking without delay and showed me the target within the calculated firing range. I also heard the missile tone. The seeker of the left R-3S had locked onto the target. I asked the command post: "Do you permit launch?" The controller asked: "Have you interrogated the target?", I answered: "Target interrogated, do you permit launch?" The range to the target was decreasing rapidly, only 5 km left. My speed was over Mach 1.4, the target was flying at Mach 0.7. The controller repeated his question and I repeated my answer, but very forcefully. I only heard "permitted" and pressed the trigger. After one or two seconds my left wing suddenly rose and I saw the missile fly off with a cloud of smoke. The second was to follow 4 seconds after the first missile launch.
Because of the 20–30 degrees of bank I received when the missile left, the target blip on the screen had flown out of the aiming circle. I had to bring the target blip back into the aiming circle. When it was exactly in the aiming circle of the screen, I pressed the trigger again and looked ahead at the target, which at that very moment turned into a huge fireball. As in a film when fuel depots explode, I saw the target in front of me. The fireball quickly became a black ring, a black cloud, out of which three large red parts of the La-17 came hurtling towards me. By the time the second missile left after 2 seconds, which seemed like an eternity to me, the debris was so close that I could not yet break off the attack. The rule was: if a missile explodes in front of the aircraft at short range because of a malfunction, fly through the middle, because the fragments fly outwards. I now kept to this rule.
I let the debris of wing and tail pass me, but still saw the fuselage, or a large black part, far ahead, towards which the second missile was flying, and then turned away to the right. While doing so I watched the engine rpm gauge. It was running stably at 100 % rpm. I checked the wings for damage with a glance out of the cockpit. Everything was in order. Now I could switch off the weapon switches and the "airstart" switch and head for the airfield. When I reported my new heading, I received no answer.
The pilots following me also called the command post for target assignment, but without success. Suddenly we heard a Russian voice from another control centre addressing us by our call signs and giving us the headings for the return flight. We did not know at the time that our command post had suffered a power failure moments after giving me clearance to fire, and the radio link had been lost.
When I taxied back to my parking spot, a cluster of people had already gathered there. They had followed the direct hit, which was quite rare, on the radio receivers or on the radar screens that had not been affected by the power failure. Often the La-17 was only damaged, slowly lost height or went out of control, so that a SAM had to be used before the Lavochkin left the boundaries of the firing range. As I left the cockpit, my comrades cheered me; only my technician called out: "We have three hits in the cone!" At that moment a Russian officer took a photo. I did not look very happy. Three fragments had caused three small paint chips on the green cone of the intake. But on the compressor there were impact marks that the technicians had to grind out before the next flight. That meant night work for my technician. But he did not seem to mind much, because he, like me, was proud of our aircraft, 560, the first NVA MiG-21 to shoot down an La-17. Three years later – in 1989 – the aircraft earned its second star for another La-17 shot down at Astrakhan.
The evaluation
We were all delighted with our success. All 5 La-17s were shot down.
But one officer from the wing staff, who had not taken part in the live firing himself, claimed that I had deliberately switched off the gun camera switch in order to be able to fire inside minimum firing range without proof, so as to make a sure shot, even at the risk of damaging the aircraft.
However, the SARPP flight data recorder proved that the gun camera switch had been on, and the command post was able to prove that I had broken off the attack before minimum firing range at 3 km. The evaluation centre later found a torn perforation in my gun camera film, the cause of the missing photo record.
Only now was my kill recognised by my own wing. The Russian instructors gave us the mark "very good" on all points to be checked. All targets were engaged in the shortest possible time – including the first, my target, which had already gone out of control before the first shot and had prematurely become a manoeuvring target in the stratosphere. We had the lowest missile consumption. The tactical behaviour of the pilots, the reaction of the command post crew to unforeseen situations and the leadership of the wing commander were all assessed as very good.
The next day, the best pilots of my squadron were honoured by the leadership of the Soviet wing with gifts and words of praise.
Nobody from our own wing leadership was to be seen in the squadron. They were preparing for the reception with the Chief of the Air Force. None of the active pilots, technicians or controllers who had taken part in the live firing were invited to the reception.
At a parade of the squadron with the technicians of the maintenance squadron, the fighter controllers and the landing controllers, my squadron leadership honoured everyone's performance. The best NCOs received special leave or material rewards from the pilots. The morale of the squadron was very good and the mood joyful and relaxed.
We, the German and the Soviet squadrons, organised a "reception" at our level on an arm of the Volga in the open countryside. Two litres of de-icing fluid were exchanged for 20 live carp, and from the rest of the de-icing fluid the flight surgeon mixed a strong and tasty drink. We cheerfully rounded off the live firing on the Volga before preparing for the return flight – 3300 km to the west.
Shortly after our return to Holzdorf, our wing commander was promoted to colonel. I was asked by the pay office to collect a bonus of 200 marks.
No squadron, no wing of the NVA after us brought home such a result – the mark "very good" in all checks of the live firing.