mineman65
01-07-05, 15:51
Eino Luukkanen was 3rd ranking fighter ace in FAF after WWII. During the war time he flew Fokker D.XXI, Brewster B-239, Messerschmitt Bf 109G-2 and Bf 109G-6. I will have some of his stories here for you to read.
Winter War
The weather worsens
On December 18th the snow at least ceased to fall, and the freeze set in. Heavy layers of snow clouds still hung low in the sky, and the snow was now so deep that we had to replace the wheels of our fighters with skis. Shortly before 11.00 hours a coastal artillery battery at Saarenpää, near the fortress of Koivisto, reported that a Russian spotter aircraft above them was directing fire from warships. My flight was immediately detailed to undertake the destruction of the aircraft, and so Illu Juutilainen and i took off to perform the mission.
Owing to the low cloud base, we were forced to fly at an altitude of little more than three hundred feet, but within thirty minutes the Gulf of Finland came into view and we were soon flying over Saarenpää. There was no sign of any spotter aircraft. We searched the area thoroughly, but our quarry must have slipped into the clouds. We were just crossing the eastern section of the island when there was a sharp explosion in the belly of my Fokker! Involuntarily, i gave a startled shout as the aircraft seemed to sway, then right itself again! I quickly checked my instruments but nothing seemed amiss. Illu was still flying serenely alongside. I made a sharp turn and glanced behind my Fokker. My fuel tank had been punctured by ground fire.
Telling Illu to continue the search for the intruding Russian, and since there appeared to be no immediate danger of fire, i turned homewards, hoping to reach base before my fuel ran out. There were more than sixty miles to cover at low altitude over terrain totally unsuited for a forced landing, and i had no way of knowing how rapidly the fuel was pouring out of the tank! I flew with the knowledge that the D.XXI, with its fixed undercarriage, was hardly the most suitable aircraft in which to attempt an emergency landing, particularly in heavily wooded countryside, and few pilots who had made such an attempt had walked away from the scene.
I flew in a straight line at maximum cruising speed in an attempt to reduce the time factor as well as keep the loss of fuel through the hole in a tank to a minimum. I passed over the small communities of Johannes, Säiniö and Tammisuu, one eye constantly on the clock. My ears were carefully attuned to the roar of the engine, wary of any change of note, and several times my heart jumped when i thought that i detected a falter. Thirteen minutes and i had passed the half way point. I crossed the Viipuri-Antrea railway line and was just passing south of the Kavantsaari station when what i had been fearing happened. The Mercury engine faltered, coughed a couple of times, petered out and then picked up again. My fuel was all but gone. Already the Fokker was slowing down, and i had no alternative but to look for somewhere in which to make an emergency landing. Luckily, there were no thickly wooded areas directly ahead but, nevertheless, the terrain was anything but promising. I had no choice but a ploughed field traversed by drainage ditches and bordered by telephone lines and power cables.
By this time my altitude was a mere five hundred feet, and there was no time to search for a more hospitable landing area. The engine coughed once more and then died completely. I approached the field in a steep glide but my calculations were thrown out by some telephone lines which suddenly popped up in front, forcing me to jam down the nose of the Fokker tp scrape beneath them. The skis hit the ground with a tremendous thwack, shaking every bone in my body, my straps cutting into my shoulders. The aircraft bounded a hundred feet into the air, then dropped back on to the skis with a second jarring crash. With the rudder i tried desperately to keep the fighter running in a roughly straight line, but bouncing and swaying over the partly snow-covered furrows and ditches, i had about as much control as i would have had over an unbroken horse.
Gradually, the aircraft began to slacken its erratic rush across the field. The rudder no longer had any affect, and the nose plunged into a deep drainage ditch. Everything was suddenly eerily still. The Fokker's wings straddled the ditch, its tail pointing skywards, and i hung from my safety belt about ten feet from the ground, afraid that any hasty move on my part would disturb the precarious balance of the aircraft which could well fall over on its back, pinning me beneath it. Hardly daring to breathe, i gingerly unsnapped my straps, carefully wriggling from the cockpit and dropping to the ground.
Shaking from my experience, i sat on my parachute pack on the edge of the drainage ditch and considered my predicament. Beside me, standing on her nose, was my sorely damaged D.XXI. It seemed hardly fitting that this faithful friend which had brought the Finnish Air Force its first victory should, temporarily at least, end her operational career in so undignified a fashion, with her proud nose in a ditch, To add insult to injury, the anti-aircraft bullet that had brought about her discomfiture was obviously not the product of some Russian factory tucked away behind the Urals but one hastily fired by the very forces that had requested our aid in removing the Russian spotting plane.
My "landing" had obviously been seen from a nearby house for, as i sat miserably smoking, two men began walking extremely stealthily towards me, both carrying shotguns. They had evidently not recognised the blue swastikas on my Fokker and, assuming that i was a Russian, were now bent on making me prisoner or despatching me to Hades. I realised that i had better make my nationality known to them before they started blasting away with their shotguns, and, hurriedly, i shouted, "Hyvää päivää". As soon as they heard me calling "good day" to them in their own tongue, they lowered their guns and hurried forward to offer their assistance. I took one last look at the Fokker, Although she would fly again some day, it was obvious that the aircraft would have to spend some time in the factory at Tampere. The airscrew was a total write-off, the port wingtip needed replacing, the undercarriage was badly damaged, and heaven knew what other damage she had suffered, so, with my 'chute slung over my shoulder, i accompanied my "escorts" to the nearest house. After telephoning the base to inform them of my mishap, i sat with my hosts drinking coffee and discussing the war until a car arrived to take me back to Immola.
----------
The morning of December 20th dawned cloudless with the promise of excellent flying weather, At 09.00 hours my flight was assigned an interception mission over the Vuoksenranta-Antrea sector, and our five remaining Fokkers took-off with my deputy flight commander, Tatu Huhanantti, leading them. I did not have a heart to deprive someone of his personal aircraft so that i could accompany this sortie, so i stayed behind at Immola, silently cursing that misdirected Finnish anti-aircraft bullet that had found its billet in my fuel tank. The boys were highly elated when they landed. It appeared that just as they arrived over the sector, they ran straight into an enemy bomber formation, dispersing it in a furious mêlée. They had chased the Russian bombers all over the sky, and several running battles had ensued, but when all five pilots had landed safely, i was delighted and proud to learn that they had raised our total by no less than five kills.
As we sat around steaming cups of strong coffee in the mess, i am sure that i felt as much excitement while listening to the retelling of their adventures as they had in experiencing them. However, i had noticed that young Sergeant Pentti Tilli displayed an ashen face when he clambered from his cockpit and still looked rather seedy. He was not the type of youngster to suffer from combat nerves, and on taxing him for the reason for this apparent discomfiture, he related the details of a singularly unpleasant experience.
It appeared that he had managed to get on the tail of one of the bombers and, after a short chase, had despatched his quarry with a few bursts. He noticed several aircraft in combat above and to port, but as he turned towards the battle he felt a terrific ahock on his starboard wing, and the aircraft swerved violently. Tilli's eyes were hardly prepared for the horrible sight that met them. Less that three yards from his cockpit was the body of a crew member of one of the Russian bombers transfixed by the protruding barrel of one of the Fokker's wing guns! Undoubtedly the Russian had been killed instantaneously, but the contorted features of the Russian seemed to grimace at Tilli no matter how he attempted to dislodge the body, and control was extremely difficult with the Russian's parachute streaming back from the wing. Gradually the parachute disintegrated and, finally, the body dropped from the gun barrel, leaving only a large tear in the wing fabric to remind Tilli of his unwelcome passenger, but he told us that it would be many a long day before he would forget the face of that dead Russian.
The next day was again bright and clear, although the temperature had fallen to minus 20 degrees C. During moonlit night an air-raid alert had sounded, but no enemy aircraft had found their way to our base, I borrowed another pilot's Fokker and led an interception sortie over Taipalejoki. We cruised at an altitude of ten thousand feet, and approaching the shores of Lake Ladoga, could see a large fire burning at Muolaa. We flew steadily on over Käkisalmi towards Taipale, and shortly afterwards spotted a formation of eight enemy bombers flying northwards at an altitude of about twenty thousand feet, white vapour trails streaming from the exhausts of each bomber. With engines turning at full revs we began climbing towards the Russians, but as we passed sixteen thousand feet the enemy formation made a full 180 degrees turn. For a moment this puzzled me, and then, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that the rest of the flight was keeping up, i saw that we too were leaving vapour trails.
These had evidently given the game away to the Russians who were now fleeing back over their own territory. Cursing the vapour trails, we continued to pursue the bombers for some minutes, but at the speed and altitude at which they were flying we had little hope of getting within firing range and, reluctantly, turned back without having accomplished our mission. At least we had the satisfaction of knowing that we had forced the Russians back over their own lines with their bombs still in their bomb bays. On the return flight, cruising above the shores of Lake Ladoga, near Käkisalmi, we once again encountered some of our old Bulldog fighters evidently sent up on the same mission as ourselves, though i could not help reflecting sadly on the chances of one of these ancient biplanes against a modern Russian SB-2.
During the final approach, i saw that our "breakfast truck" was awaiting us near the flight line, keeping our food from freezing in the bitterly cold weather. During spells of alert duty, when we were continually near our aircraft, hot meals were a rarity, sandwiches and vacuum flasks of coffee being brought to us on the flight line. The hours awaiting orders to take-off were spent marching up and down endeavouring to keep warm, and during the early afternoon one of the mechanics with particularly keen hearing picked up the sound of aero engines in the far distance. Immediately we were all listening intently and simultaneously scanning the sky in the direction of the sound. The roar grew steadily in volume until we picked out a formation of nine bombers approaching at an altitude of some six thousand feet.
There was no time to wait orders and we were already climbing into the fighters. Within sixty seconds we were off the ground, but we were only at treetop level when i saw the bombs falling--luckily into the Immola Lake. Now began a long chase which, from the outset, offered few chances of success, for the enemy bombers were already steaming back towards their own territory, and our Fokkers had little speed advantage over an SB-2. The Russians also enjoyed the added advantage ao altitude, but although one or two of the first fighters off the ground managed to get in some long-range shots, these apparently had no affect. However, my deputy, Tatu, spotted one of the enemy bombers diving for lower altitudes to make his escape, and succeeded in catching the Russian to notch up his first kill. This meant that every member of my flight now had at least one kill to his credit.
----------
The weather continued bitterly cold but bright, and the long night hours were moolit--perfect for the enemy bombers. Air activity was quite lively on both sides, and early in the morning of December 23rd i received what was to me the very best of Christmas presents--a replacement Fokker! The aircraft, which carried the serial number FR-108, had been flown in to Immola from Tampere where it had been undergoing repairs following an accident, but i had no opportunity to inspect my new mount, take it up for a test hop, or even bore-sight its guns. At 09.30 hours the whole squadron was ordered into the air to cover the withdrawal of our forces on the Summa Front. Our task was to maintain air superiority over the area, and the full squadron of eighteen aircraft formed up over the Heinjoki in stepped echelon, the lowest step flying at seven thousand feet, this being my flight which had been designated the "strike element".
A thin veil of cloud hung over the front at about five thousand feet, and the formation dropped below this. I scanned the countryside in every direction, but it was hard to distinguish a moving aircraft against the dark forest background. Occasionally i saw vehicles moving along the roads and the muzzle flashes of artillery, but there was no sign of any Russian aerial activity until, at 10.15 hours, i saw a movement below and to port. It was an elderly Russian Polikarpov R-5 reconnaisance biplane flying on a northerly course.
I gave the order to attack and, peeling off in sections as though on a perfectly executed demonstration, the flight tore down on the unsuspecting Russian machine. I began firing at a distance of a hundred yards, my tracers ripping savagely along the fuselage, and at fifty yards the R-5 exploded like a bursting hand grenade, burning fragments flashing past my Fokker, and the flaming engine twisting and turning, the airscrew still windmilling, to crash somewhere in the area of the Kämärä station. My second kill!
We formed up again and, thirty minutes later, my starboard wingman signalled that enemy aircraft were ahead. Almost simultaneously, i spotted three enemy bombers winging their way north over Muolaanjärvi. We closed with the trio and began our attack. Within a blink of an eyelid, a Fokker was fastened on the tail of each of the SB-2s, firing short bursts from close range. Inside two minutes, all three bombers were falling in flames. During this scrap, Tilli and i had become separated from the rest of the group and, just in time, i cought sight of ten stubby little I-16 fighter monoplanes bearing down on us. It is an old adage that the best form of defence is offence, and this is particularly true in aerial combat. We turned sharply to face the Russians, and i fired a short burst head on at the first I-16, banked vertically and was lined up with the second.
All four guns pumped a stream of bullets into the Russian fighter, and as it swept past i noticed that a puff of grey smoke came from it and that it was swaying crazily as though the pilot was having difficulty in maintaining contrlo. but i had no chance to follow his progress for i was now boxed in by tracers myself. I kicked my Fokker into a climbing turn, but one of the I-16s was still clinging to my tail, firing short bursts. I half-rolled into a vertical dive, pulling out just above the trees and, to my relief, found that i had shaken off my opponent. Un fortunately, i had also lost sight of the I-16 that i had been firing at and so could only consider it as a "probable". High above, the fourth flight was continuing the fight where Tilli and i had left off, but within minutes we had re-formed and were heading back to base to replenish our fuel and ammunition. We were soon once more over the Summa front, but no further enemy aircraft were encountered that day.
In the evening, we sat around in the "alert tent" in a jovial mood, swopping experiences of the day. Outside, our mechanics were busily patching our fighters, checking the guns and ensuring that the Fokkers would be ready for whatever the morrow brought. Myself, i was more than satisfied with my new mount. She had received her operational baptism without even having been check flown, and she had acquitted herself well.
http://www.minemanmaps.com/mil/Fokker.gif
Fokker D.XXI of 24 Squadron (3./LLv 24), flown by Lt. Luukkanen in Winter War, before his crash landing in 18th December 1939.
Winter War
The weather worsens
On December 18th the snow at least ceased to fall, and the freeze set in. Heavy layers of snow clouds still hung low in the sky, and the snow was now so deep that we had to replace the wheels of our fighters with skis. Shortly before 11.00 hours a coastal artillery battery at Saarenpää, near the fortress of Koivisto, reported that a Russian spotter aircraft above them was directing fire from warships. My flight was immediately detailed to undertake the destruction of the aircraft, and so Illu Juutilainen and i took off to perform the mission.
Owing to the low cloud base, we were forced to fly at an altitude of little more than three hundred feet, but within thirty minutes the Gulf of Finland came into view and we were soon flying over Saarenpää. There was no sign of any spotter aircraft. We searched the area thoroughly, but our quarry must have slipped into the clouds. We were just crossing the eastern section of the island when there was a sharp explosion in the belly of my Fokker! Involuntarily, i gave a startled shout as the aircraft seemed to sway, then right itself again! I quickly checked my instruments but nothing seemed amiss. Illu was still flying serenely alongside. I made a sharp turn and glanced behind my Fokker. My fuel tank had been punctured by ground fire.
Telling Illu to continue the search for the intruding Russian, and since there appeared to be no immediate danger of fire, i turned homewards, hoping to reach base before my fuel ran out. There were more than sixty miles to cover at low altitude over terrain totally unsuited for a forced landing, and i had no way of knowing how rapidly the fuel was pouring out of the tank! I flew with the knowledge that the D.XXI, with its fixed undercarriage, was hardly the most suitable aircraft in which to attempt an emergency landing, particularly in heavily wooded countryside, and few pilots who had made such an attempt had walked away from the scene.
I flew in a straight line at maximum cruising speed in an attempt to reduce the time factor as well as keep the loss of fuel through the hole in a tank to a minimum. I passed over the small communities of Johannes, Säiniö and Tammisuu, one eye constantly on the clock. My ears were carefully attuned to the roar of the engine, wary of any change of note, and several times my heart jumped when i thought that i detected a falter. Thirteen minutes and i had passed the half way point. I crossed the Viipuri-Antrea railway line and was just passing south of the Kavantsaari station when what i had been fearing happened. The Mercury engine faltered, coughed a couple of times, petered out and then picked up again. My fuel was all but gone. Already the Fokker was slowing down, and i had no alternative but to look for somewhere in which to make an emergency landing. Luckily, there were no thickly wooded areas directly ahead but, nevertheless, the terrain was anything but promising. I had no choice but a ploughed field traversed by drainage ditches and bordered by telephone lines and power cables.
By this time my altitude was a mere five hundred feet, and there was no time to search for a more hospitable landing area. The engine coughed once more and then died completely. I approached the field in a steep glide but my calculations were thrown out by some telephone lines which suddenly popped up in front, forcing me to jam down the nose of the Fokker tp scrape beneath them. The skis hit the ground with a tremendous thwack, shaking every bone in my body, my straps cutting into my shoulders. The aircraft bounded a hundred feet into the air, then dropped back on to the skis with a second jarring crash. With the rudder i tried desperately to keep the fighter running in a roughly straight line, but bouncing and swaying over the partly snow-covered furrows and ditches, i had about as much control as i would have had over an unbroken horse.
Gradually, the aircraft began to slacken its erratic rush across the field. The rudder no longer had any affect, and the nose plunged into a deep drainage ditch. Everything was suddenly eerily still. The Fokker's wings straddled the ditch, its tail pointing skywards, and i hung from my safety belt about ten feet from the ground, afraid that any hasty move on my part would disturb the precarious balance of the aircraft which could well fall over on its back, pinning me beneath it. Hardly daring to breathe, i gingerly unsnapped my straps, carefully wriggling from the cockpit and dropping to the ground.
Shaking from my experience, i sat on my parachute pack on the edge of the drainage ditch and considered my predicament. Beside me, standing on her nose, was my sorely damaged D.XXI. It seemed hardly fitting that this faithful friend which had brought the Finnish Air Force its first victory should, temporarily at least, end her operational career in so undignified a fashion, with her proud nose in a ditch, To add insult to injury, the anti-aircraft bullet that had brought about her discomfiture was obviously not the product of some Russian factory tucked away behind the Urals but one hastily fired by the very forces that had requested our aid in removing the Russian spotting plane.
My "landing" had obviously been seen from a nearby house for, as i sat miserably smoking, two men began walking extremely stealthily towards me, both carrying shotguns. They had evidently not recognised the blue swastikas on my Fokker and, assuming that i was a Russian, were now bent on making me prisoner or despatching me to Hades. I realised that i had better make my nationality known to them before they started blasting away with their shotguns, and, hurriedly, i shouted, "Hyvää päivää". As soon as they heard me calling "good day" to them in their own tongue, they lowered their guns and hurried forward to offer their assistance. I took one last look at the Fokker, Although she would fly again some day, it was obvious that the aircraft would have to spend some time in the factory at Tampere. The airscrew was a total write-off, the port wingtip needed replacing, the undercarriage was badly damaged, and heaven knew what other damage she had suffered, so, with my 'chute slung over my shoulder, i accompanied my "escorts" to the nearest house. After telephoning the base to inform them of my mishap, i sat with my hosts drinking coffee and discussing the war until a car arrived to take me back to Immola.
----------
The morning of December 20th dawned cloudless with the promise of excellent flying weather, At 09.00 hours my flight was assigned an interception mission over the Vuoksenranta-Antrea sector, and our five remaining Fokkers took-off with my deputy flight commander, Tatu Huhanantti, leading them. I did not have a heart to deprive someone of his personal aircraft so that i could accompany this sortie, so i stayed behind at Immola, silently cursing that misdirected Finnish anti-aircraft bullet that had found its billet in my fuel tank. The boys were highly elated when they landed. It appeared that just as they arrived over the sector, they ran straight into an enemy bomber formation, dispersing it in a furious mêlée. They had chased the Russian bombers all over the sky, and several running battles had ensued, but when all five pilots had landed safely, i was delighted and proud to learn that they had raised our total by no less than five kills.
As we sat around steaming cups of strong coffee in the mess, i am sure that i felt as much excitement while listening to the retelling of their adventures as they had in experiencing them. However, i had noticed that young Sergeant Pentti Tilli displayed an ashen face when he clambered from his cockpit and still looked rather seedy. He was not the type of youngster to suffer from combat nerves, and on taxing him for the reason for this apparent discomfiture, he related the details of a singularly unpleasant experience.
It appeared that he had managed to get on the tail of one of the bombers and, after a short chase, had despatched his quarry with a few bursts. He noticed several aircraft in combat above and to port, but as he turned towards the battle he felt a terrific ahock on his starboard wing, and the aircraft swerved violently. Tilli's eyes were hardly prepared for the horrible sight that met them. Less that three yards from his cockpit was the body of a crew member of one of the Russian bombers transfixed by the protruding barrel of one of the Fokker's wing guns! Undoubtedly the Russian had been killed instantaneously, but the contorted features of the Russian seemed to grimace at Tilli no matter how he attempted to dislodge the body, and control was extremely difficult with the Russian's parachute streaming back from the wing. Gradually the parachute disintegrated and, finally, the body dropped from the gun barrel, leaving only a large tear in the wing fabric to remind Tilli of his unwelcome passenger, but he told us that it would be many a long day before he would forget the face of that dead Russian.
The next day was again bright and clear, although the temperature had fallen to minus 20 degrees C. During moonlit night an air-raid alert had sounded, but no enemy aircraft had found their way to our base, I borrowed another pilot's Fokker and led an interception sortie over Taipalejoki. We cruised at an altitude of ten thousand feet, and approaching the shores of Lake Ladoga, could see a large fire burning at Muolaa. We flew steadily on over Käkisalmi towards Taipale, and shortly afterwards spotted a formation of eight enemy bombers flying northwards at an altitude of about twenty thousand feet, white vapour trails streaming from the exhausts of each bomber. With engines turning at full revs we began climbing towards the Russians, but as we passed sixteen thousand feet the enemy formation made a full 180 degrees turn. For a moment this puzzled me, and then, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that the rest of the flight was keeping up, i saw that we too were leaving vapour trails.
These had evidently given the game away to the Russians who were now fleeing back over their own territory. Cursing the vapour trails, we continued to pursue the bombers for some minutes, but at the speed and altitude at which they were flying we had little hope of getting within firing range and, reluctantly, turned back without having accomplished our mission. At least we had the satisfaction of knowing that we had forced the Russians back over their own lines with their bombs still in their bomb bays. On the return flight, cruising above the shores of Lake Ladoga, near Käkisalmi, we once again encountered some of our old Bulldog fighters evidently sent up on the same mission as ourselves, though i could not help reflecting sadly on the chances of one of these ancient biplanes against a modern Russian SB-2.
During the final approach, i saw that our "breakfast truck" was awaiting us near the flight line, keeping our food from freezing in the bitterly cold weather. During spells of alert duty, when we were continually near our aircraft, hot meals were a rarity, sandwiches and vacuum flasks of coffee being brought to us on the flight line. The hours awaiting orders to take-off were spent marching up and down endeavouring to keep warm, and during the early afternoon one of the mechanics with particularly keen hearing picked up the sound of aero engines in the far distance. Immediately we were all listening intently and simultaneously scanning the sky in the direction of the sound. The roar grew steadily in volume until we picked out a formation of nine bombers approaching at an altitude of some six thousand feet.
There was no time to wait orders and we were already climbing into the fighters. Within sixty seconds we were off the ground, but we were only at treetop level when i saw the bombs falling--luckily into the Immola Lake. Now began a long chase which, from the outset, offered few chances of success, for the enemy bombers were already steaming back towards their own territory, and our Fokkers had little speed advantage over an SB-2. The Russians also enjoyed the added advantage ao altitude, but although one or two of the first fighters off the ground managed to get in some long-range shots, these apparently had no affect. However, my deputy, Tatu, spotted one of the enemy bombers diving for lower altitudes to make his escape, and succeeded in catching the Russian to notch up his first kill. This meant that every member of my flight now had at least one kill to his credit.
----------
The weather continued bitterly cold but bright, and the long night hours were moolit--perfect for the enemy bombers. Air activity was quite lively on both sides, and early in the morning of December 23rd i received what was to me the very best of Christmas presents--a replacement Fokker! The aircraft, which carried the serial number FR-108, had been flown in to Immola from Tampere where it had been undergoing repairs following an accident, but i had no opportunity to inspect my new mount, take it up for a test hop, or even bore-sight its guns. At 09.30 hours the whole squadron was ordered into the air to cover the withdrawal of our forces on the Summa Front. Our task was to maintain air superiority over the area, and the full squadron of eighteen aircraft formed up over the Heinjoki in stepped echelon, the lowest step flying at seven thousand feet, this being my flight which had been designated the "strike element".
A thin veil of cloud hung over the front at about five thousand feet, and the formation dropped below this. I scanned the countryside in every direction, but it was hard to distinguish a moving aircraft against the dark forest background. Occasionally i saw vehicles moving along the roads and the muzzle flashes of artillery, but there was no sign of any Russian aerial activity until, at 10.15 hours, i saw a movement below and to port. It was an elderly Russian Polikarpov R-5 reconnaisance biplane flying on a northerly course.
I gave the order to attack and, peeling off in sections as though on a perfectly executed demonstration, the flight tore down on the unsuspecting Russian machine. I began firing at a distance of a hundred yards, my tracers ripping savagely along the fuselage, and at fifty yards the R-5 exploded like a bursting hand grenade, burning fragments flashing past my Fokker, and the flaming engine twisting and turning, the airscrew still windmilling, to crash somewhere in the area of the Kämärä station. My second kill!
We formed up again and, thirty minutes later, my starboard wingman signalled that enemy aircraft were ahead. Almost simultaneously, i spotted three enemy bombers winging their way north over Muolaanjärvi. We closed with the trio and began our attack. Within a blink of an eyelid, a Fokker was fastened on the tail of each of the SB-2s, firing short bursts from close range. Inside two minutes, all three bombers were falling in flames. During this scrap, Tilli and i had become separated from the rest of the group and, just in time, i cought sight of ten stubby little I-16 fighter monoplanes bearing down on us. It is an old adage that the best form of defence is offence, and this is particularly true in aerial combat. We turned sharply to face the Russians, and i fired a short burst head on at the first I-16, banked vertically and was lined up with the second.
All four guns pumped a stream of bullets into the Russian fighter, and as it swept past i noticed that a puff of grey smoke came from it and that it was swaying crazily as though the pilot was having difficulty in maintaining contrlo. but i had no chance to follow his progress for i was now boxed in by tracers myself. I kicked my Fokker into a climbing turn, but one of the I-16s was still clinging to my tail, firing short bursts. I half-rolled into a vertical dive, pulling out just above the trees and, to my relief, found that i had shaken off my opponent. Un fortunately, i had also lost sight of the I-16 that i had been firing at and so could only consider it as a "probable". High above, the fourth flight was continuing the fight where Tilli and i had left off, but within minutes we had re-formed and were heading back to base to replenish our fuel and ammunition. We were soon once more over the Summa front, but no further enemy aircraft were encountered that day.
In the evening, we sat around in the "alert tent" in a jovial mood, swopping experiences of the day. Outside, our mechanics were busily patching our fighters, checking the guns and ensuring that the Fokkers would be ready for whatever the morrow brought. Myself, i was more than satisfied with my new mount. She had received her operational baptism without even having been check flown, and she had acquitted herself well.
http://www.minemanmaps.com/mil/Fokker.gif
Fokker D.XXI of 24 Squadron (3./LLv 24), flown by Lt. Luukkanen in Winter War, before his crash landing in 18th December 1939.