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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 STORM BREAKS
The next morning, the second day of the war, I was aroused at 05.30 hours and, only pausing to climb into my furs and without waiting for breakfast, I stumbled across the pitch-black airfield towards my flight's revetments. The Fokkers were swathed in white camouflage covers, and with my mechanic I pulled away the sheets. My D.XXI, which bore the Finnish serial number FR-104, might well find itself in action that day, so I carefully inspected the aircraft, paying special attention to the machine-guns and their ammunition belts. I swung the rudder with my feet on the pedals, rocked the stick, watching the ailerons, and signalled to the mechanic. The starter whined, the Mercury coughed, I caught it with the throttle and it burst into a comforting, deep-throated bass. I checked the instruments and then, satisfied, chopped the throttle.
Now began the period of waiting so familiar to fighter pilots of all nationalities. Gradually the darkness gave place to a murky grey, and the sky began to turn a yellowish-pink in the east. The telephone in the "ready tent" rang shrilly. We were to maintain a continuous patrol of two fighters over Vuoksenlaakso. I decided to lead the second patrol, accompanied by Vic Pyötsiä, a dependable and experienced pilot, as my wingman. We relieved the first patrol over Imatra. Our predecessors had seen no sign of enemy air activity during their ninety minutes patrolling. There was a considerable amount of cloud, the base of this being as low as thirteen hundred feet, and we began our patrol at an altitude of about a thousand feet, flying a roughly triangular route with Imatra, Enso and Jääski forming the corners.
While flying over Enso during our second circuit of the patrol area two bombers appeared. They were flying north-east at about three thousand two hundred feet at roughly two o'clock.
I gave Vic the signal to attack, rammed open the throttle and, engine roaring, attempted to position myself on the tail of the closest of the two bombers. Our intended victims, sleek, twinengined monoplanes, had evidently spotted our approach, for they banked sharply to the south-east, but this was a serious mistake for it only helped to close the distance between us more swiftly.
Quite rapidly the nearest bomber grew in my sights. Four hundred, three hundred, two hundred, one hundred yards. Never had my feet been planted more firmly on the rudder pedals, my hands gripped the control column so tightly, or my eyes been glued so closely to the gunsight as at that moment. I depressed the firing trigger and saw my tracers curve in towards the bomber. Simultaneously, brilliant orange flashes danced in front of my windscreen. The dorsal gunner was pumping away at me for all he was worth! The target now completely covered my sight and I was forced to break sharply to starboard to avoid a collision. Pulling the Fokker around I again lined up the bomber in my sight. The dorsal gunner was still blazing away at me, his tracers winking all around my fighter, but in the excitement of the moment I felt no sense of danger. I edged in to make absolutely sure of my opponent.
Our altitude was down to five hundred feet by this time, and suddenly several large objects tumbled away from the bomber.
The pilot had decided to jettison his load to lighten the aircraft, and the blast from the bombs tossed my little Fokker around like a piece of straw in a high wind. Once again I positioned myself on the bomber's tail. A little more throttle and he was squarely in my sight. Now, I could not possibly miss! I depressed the firing trigger, but just as my burst began raking along the rear fuselage, the pilot of the bomber lowered his undercarriage which, acting as an air-brake, slowed the aircraft immediately, forcing me to pull up the nose of the Fokker to avoid ramming the Russian amidships. This pilot evidently knew his stuff. I had no intention of being caught a second time, however, and I swung in to the attack once more, throttling back to match my speed with that of the bomber. I loosed a long burst into the starboard engine from a distance of no more than fifty yards, and dirty grey smoke belched back from the cowling. The airscrew windmilled momentarily, came to a standstill, and the bomber nosed down, just cleared a clump of trees and pancaked in a small field.
I could hardly believe my own eyes. My first kill! I had acted purely by instinct throughout the conflict, not giving a thought to tactics or firing angles. In fact, it seemed that my mind had been a blank throughout the incident; my reactions had been automatic. Then an awful thought struck me. Had I actually shot down a Russian bomber? I had made no attempt to identify the nationality of the aircraft or its type. I had only assumed that it belonged to the enemy! I spiralled low over my victim and, to my intense relief, saw that the bomber, a Tupolev SB-2, sported the red star insignia of the Soviet Union. The three crew members climbed from the aircraft as I roared past, waving white cloths and evidently scared that I might intend to administer the coup de grâce by strafing them with my remaining ammunition.
Until that moment it had not really occurred to me that there were men aboard this machine which now straddled some poor farmer's potato field, its back broken. An air battle is somehow detached and impersonal. One hears no cries of pain, sees no despairing faces of the dying, no blood, no agony, no human wretchedness. The sight of a stricken plane arouses only elation. Its human occupants are remote, and pity for them does not trouble the victor's conscience. A childish scheme entered my head. Could I land alongside my victim and take its crew prisoner? I had even throttled back the engine and begun my approach when I realised what a damned fool idea it was, and opened the throttle once more.
During the heat of the fight I had had no time to note my position, and now I had only the vaguest idea of the direction of Immola. Then I saw a railway line and a tiny station just two or three miles away. Flying low over the station, I managed to make out the name "Koljola ". Several people were staring up at me from the platform, and I made several turns over the station, pointing in the direction of the crashed Russian bomber.
Not knowing if they had understood my signals, I turned northwards towards Immola, anxious to feel terra firma once more beneath my feet, and to relate my experience to my friends. This, my first combat, was obviously destined to remain one of the most profound experiences of my life. Later, more hectic battles would never produce an effect so lasting as this exhilarating yet sobering experience.
While lost in these reflections, I found myself once more over the Immola Lake, and began preparations for landing.
Such was my excitement that my approach speed was too great, forcing me to go around again like a learner! My Fokker trundled over towards the members of my flight grouped around their machines, and as I cut my ignition switch, I tried vainly to hide my elation, and climb from the cockpit with some nonchalance, but it was no good, and my fellow pilots and the mechanics were soon tossing me in the air. Who can remain dignified when tossed in the air? They were as excited as I.
After all, was this not an historical event? This was the first Finnish victory in the air, and it was only later that I realised that to me had gone the honour of becoming the first Finn to have destroyed an enemy aircraft in combat. Vic had apparently made two firing passes at the other bomber, but these had had no visible effect, and the enemy had eluded him by slipping into cloud.
WINTER WAR
THE STORM BREAKS
The next morning, the second day of the war, I was aroused at 05.30 hours and, only pausing to climb into my furs and without waiting for breakfast, I stumbled across the pitch-black airfield towards my flight's revetments. The Fokkers were swathed in white camouflage covers, and with my mechanic I pulled away the sheets. My D.XXI, which bore the Finnish serial number FR-104, might well find itself in action that day, so I carefully inspected the aircraft, paying special attention to the machine-guns and their ammunition belts. I swung the rudder with my feet on the pedals, rocked the stick, watching the ailerons, and signalled to the mechanic. The starter whined, the Mercury coughed, I caught it with the throttle and it burst into a comforting, deep-throated bass. I checked the instruments and then, satisfied, chopped the throttle.
Now began the period of waiting so familiar to fighter pilots of all nationalities. Gradually the darkness gave place to a murky grey, and the sky began to turn a yellowish-pink in the east. The telephone in the "ready tent" rang shrilly. We were to maintain a continuous patrol of two fighters over Vuoksenlaakso. I decided to lead the second patrol, accompanied by Vic Pyötsiä, a dependable and experienced pilot, as my wingman. We relieved the first patrol over Imatra. Our predecessors had seen no sign of enemy air activity during their ninety minutes patrolling. There was a considerable amount of cloud, the base of this being as low as thirteen hundred feet, and we began our patrol at an altitude of about a thousand feet, flying a roughly triangular route with Imatra, Enso and Jääski forming the corners.
While flying over Enso during our second circuit of the patrol area two bombers appeared. They were flying north-east at about three thousand two hundred feet at roughly two o'clock.
I gave Vic the signal to attack, rammed open the throttle and, engine roaring, attempted to position myself on the tail of the closest of the two bombers. Our intended victims, sleek, twinengined monoplanes, had evidently spotted our approach, for they banked sharply to the south-east, but this was a serious mistake for it only helped to close the distance between us more swiftly.
Quite rapidly the nearest bomber grew in my sights. Four hundred, three hundred, two hundred, one hundred yards. Never had my feet been planted more firmly on the rudder pedals, my hands gripped the control column so tightly, or my eyes been glued so closely to the gunsight as at that moment. I depressed the firing trigger and saw my tracers curve in towards the bomber. Simultaneously, brilliant orange flashes danced in front of my windscreen. The dorsal gunner was pumping away at me for all he was worth! The target now completely covered my sight and I was forced to break sharply to starboard to avoid a collision. Pulling the Fokker around I again lined up the bomber in my sight. The dorsal gunner was still blazing away at me, his tracers winking all around my fighter, but in the excitement of the moment I felt no sense of danger. I edged in to make absolutely sure of my opponent.
Our altitude was down to five hundred feet by this time, and suddenly several large objects tumbled away from the bomber.
The pilot had decided to jettison his load to lighten the aircraft, and the blast from the bombs tossed my little Fokker around like a piece of straw in a high wind. Once again I positioned myself on the bomber's tail. A little more throttle and he was squarely in my sight. Now, I could not possibly miss! I depressed the firing trigger, but just as my burst began raking along the rear fuselage, the pilot of the bomber lowered his undercarriage which, acting as an air-brake, slowed the aircraft immediately, forcing me to pull up the nose of the Fokker to avoid ramming the Russian amidships. This pilot evidently knew his stuff. I had no intention of being caught a second time, however, and I swung in to the attack once more, throttling back to match my speed with that of the bomber. I loosed a long burst into the starboard engine from a distance of no more than fifty yards, and dirty grey smoke belched back from the cowling. The airscrew windmilled momentarily, came to a standstill, and the bomber nosed down, just cleared a clump of trees and pancaked in a small field.
I could hardly believe my own eyes. My first kill! I had acted purely by instinct throughout the conflict, not giving a thought to tactics or firing angles. In fact, it seemed that my mind had been a blank throughout the incident; my reactions had been automatic. Then an awful thought struck me. Had I actually shot down a Russian bomber? I had made no attempt to identify the nationality of the aircraft or its type. I had only assumed that it belonged to the enemy! I spiralled low over my victim and, to my intense relief, saw that the bomber, a Tupolev SB-2, sported the red star insignia of the Soviet Union. The three crew members climbed from the aircraft as I roared past, waving white cloths and evidently scared that I might intend to administer the coup de grâce by strafing them with my remaining ammunition.
Until that moment it had not really occurred to me that there were men aboard this machine which now straddled some poor farmer's potato field, its back broken. An air battle is somehow detached and impersonal. One hears no cries of pain, sees no despairing faces of the dying, no blood, no agony, no human wretchedness. The sight of a stricken plane arouses only elation. Its human occupants are remote, and pity for them does not trouble the victor's conscience. A childish scheme entered my head. Could I land alongside my victim and take its crew prisoner? I had even throttled back the engine and begun my approach when I realised what a damned fool idea it was, and opened the throttle once more.
During the heat of the fight I had had no time to note my position, and now I had only the vaguest idea of the direction of Immola. Then I saw a railway line and a tiny station just two or three miles away. Flying low over the station, I managed to make out the name "Koljola ". Several people were staring up at me from the platform, and I made several turns over the station, pointing in the direction of the crashed Russian bomber.
Not knowing if they had understood my signals, I turned northwards towards Immola, anxious to feel terra firma once more beneath my feet, and to relate my experience to my friends. This, my first combat, was obviously destined to remain one of the most profound experiences of my life. Later, more hectic battles would never produce an effect so lasting as this exhilarating yet sobering experience.
While lost in these reflections, I found myself once more over the Immola Lake, and began preparations for landing.
Such was my excitement that my approach speed was too great, forcing me to go around again like a learner! My Fokker trundled over towards the members of my flight grouped around their machines, and as I cut my ignition switch, I tried vainly to hide my elation, and climb from the cockpit with some nonchalance, but it was no good, and my fellow pilots and the mechanics were soon tossing me in the air. Who can remain dignified when tossed in the air? They were as excited as I.
After all, was this not an historical event? This was the first Finnish victory in the air, and it was only later that I realised that to me had gone the honour of becoming the first Finn to have destroyed an enemy aircraft in combat. Vic had apparently made two firing passes at the other bomber, but these had had no visible effect, and the enemy had eluded him by slipping into cloud.
.
