13 December 1994
In a small village, an old man sat next to his office fireplace. The warmth of the fire covered him on this cold night. A glass of Nalewka in hand. Photos of past glory, old friends, surrounded him. He remembered his old days fighting Fascists, Nazis, and the odd communist once or twice. The days of speeding through the clouds, bullets flying around him, smell of fuel burning filled his nose. Putting his drink next to the framed photo of his Squadron back in 44. Seems like yesterday they were all pounding the Huns. As he picked up a pen gifted to him from his wingman, he spotted two little heads poking in the office. "Come in you two." he chuckled. The two grandkids sighed after getting caught. Walking in, they climbed onto the sofa next to the door. "So, what were you two little rascals doing?"
"Just wanted to see what you're doing." the oldest grandchild, Emil, said. The grandfather smirked. He had only met them today. After Poland regained its freedom, the old man returned home. His son stayed in Britain, growing a family. The granddaughter Irena pointed above the fireplace.
"What's those?" she asked.
Standing up, he walked over, grabbing a frame board with his medals. Sliding his finger on the glass, he thought of every battle, every kill, every death. The ones who never returned. His friends. All in the name of freedom. Decades of hard fighting. So much chaos, yet now it was worth it. Sitting next to his grandkids, he smiled.
"These are my medals from years of service."
"When?" Emil asked. Chuckling, he decided to tell a story.
"See this, the Spanish Cross of Military Merit." he said, pointing at the old red cross. "I got this back in 37. When I first got a taste of combat."
o 0 o
3 June 1937
A young, nervous man climbed into the cockpit of I-16. He had dreamed of this moment for years. To take to the skies as a fighter pilot. Now he was facing the reality. The engines roared to life as the squadron taxi to the runway. Following them, he looked over to his wingman. The Spaniard gave the Pole a thumbs up. Giving the more experience pilot of thumbs up back, they got on the runway. Pushing the throttle forward, the plane sped ahead. Pulling the stick back, the fighter slowly gained attitude. Grabbing a hold of the gear winch, he raised up the landing gear. Looking down the sight, he saw his squadron racing to meet the Katiuskas. Keeping in the formation, he braced himself. The Republic was being pushed back. Now was the time for them to push forward.
After roughly twenty minutes of flying, the Soviet donated bombers came into view. The group turned West for Segovia. The Army was in need of relief. So the Air Force is racing forward. Guns ready. The fighter escorts gain attitude above the bombers. A simple intercept tactic. One which the young pilot was hopeful for. As the flight traveled to the battle, he thought of home. The sweet taste of vodka in his mouth. The taste heavy yet soothing. But he pulled out of the thoughts with a simple sentence. "Bandits. Two o'clock low." Lieutenant Carlos Riba reported. Gripping the stick, the Pole tilted his fighter to see the small shapes of fighters diving to the bombers. Paying close attention to the small details. Slim, one engine, fast. Guessing they're a squadron of 109s.
Looking over to his wingman, he smiled. Their first dogfight. But none in the squadron was making a move to the enemy. The captain didn't give any orders. They just kept flying. When the 109s reached the bombers, hell was let loose. Within seconds, three bombers were down. No choice left. Taking a deep breath, he went for a dive. Keeping the lead 109 in his sights. Getting closer for the best hit. Speed increasing. "Prohaska, get back in formation!" the Captain ordered, but the Pole ignored the idiotic order. Lining up his sights, he pressed the trigger, unleashing a burst of bullets. Turning, before he could see the damage, a second 109 was speeding right towards him. Firing the guns, the enemy engine burst into flames. Banking left, a third fighter was unlucky. This burst of bullets tore their left wing off.
But Prohaska's luck couldn't last. Bullets past his fighter. Flying close to the bomber formation, he flew in front of the bombers noses. A risky move, but when the bullets ceased, he looked back. A bomber scored the kill. Putting his focus back on the 109s, he saw a fighter diving above him. Their sights were on a bomber. Raising up, the Pole opened fire. The bullets stuck the 109, pouring fuel out. Tailing the 109, he kept the guns steady. Opening fire only when the fighter was in the crosshairs. When the fighter spiraled in flames. Another kill to his name. Before he could pick a new target, bullets stuck his fighter from above. Diving, he looked back to see a pair of 109s on his six. Swerving, banking, he tried everything, but the two fighters were still pursuing him. The enemy tearing through the fighter. The engine was smoking, fuel leaking, losing attitude.
He had no choice. Unbuckling his straps, dragging out of the fighter, the wind was blowing hard. Holding onto the cockpit as the fighter spiraled down, he took a breath. Jumping off, he nearly was hit by the tail. Opening the parachute, he was slowly going down. The two 109s split apart. One going for the bombers. The other flying by him. In the few short seconds, the Pole glared at his foe. He couldn't do anything more. All he could do is watch as the bombers are taken out.
o 0 o
13 December 1994
"Wow. That must have been awesome." Emil said. The old man chuckled. It was certainly adventurous, but it went against all sanity. He went in alone. For nothing. But he didn't show his disappointment to the grandkids. Instead, he pointed to the Virtuti Militari. Before he could explain, his son, Kamil, knocked on the office door. The children sighed. The old man stood up.
"Time for bed, kiddos." Kamil said.
The two little ones walked slowly out of the office. Putting the medals back above the fireplace. The nightmare of war returning to his memory. He remembered every detail of that day. His first four kills. Earned his strips. Made his name among the ranks. Although the battle was lost, it began a legend that lives on to this day. A thorn in the side of many bastard nations. He didn't do it for the medals. Not for fame. He did it for duty and honor. What next was just a perk. Sitting back down in his chair, the son sat on the couch.
"It wasn't your fault." Kamil said. The old man chuckled. It seems adult life gave the once little boy insight to the mind of his father. "It was a long time ago. You can't blame yourself." he said. The young man knew what Janos Prohaska was thinking. The day of disaster. That came with the Laureate Cross of Saint Ferdinand hidden away in the chest under the couch. A grim reminder of his worst decision.
o 0 o
10 July 1937
Taking the lead, the newly promoted Captain Prohaska led his I-16s to Brunete. The wind tossing at them. His thrill for the battle growing with the minute. The possibility of earning more kills thrilled him. But that is only if he was lucky. Their mission was to drop their bombs onto the Nationalists. Halt their counterattack. Give the boots on the ground the chance to push the bastards to hell. Searching the skies, he saw nothing. All good so far. As the city came into view, he began the descent. The squadron following close in flights of four. Splitting up to distract the AA guns. Taking deep breaths, he guided the flight past the tracers. Flying over the artillery holes, the flight dropped their payload. Gaining attitude, they lost valuable speed as the AA guns started to get some hits. The Pole smiled, knowing that the gunners fired in vain. The damage was minimal, while the artillery was destroyed. Everything went to plan. Until a high pitch whistle echoed the skies.
Squadrons of fighter silhouettes dove towards the small fighters. Single engine. Obviously fighters, but they had extended landing gear along with only one pair of wings. These weren't the fighters he was trained for. These are something new. The beginning of the disaster. The squadrons exchanged fire. "Keep out of their sights. Get on their tails." Prohaska ordered after his engine began to smoke. This was a dangerous maneuver for the I-16s. As the enemy fighters passed, he took in the few seconds to examine the fighters. They were German made. Which means that they are metal, fast, and deadly. Turning around, he saw the fighters dropping bombs onto the Republic lines. As they leveled out, the I-16s got their sights on them. The Pole thought this would be an easy strike.
The crosshair lined up, pressing the trigger, the bullets turned the enemy fighter in flames. Another kill. Smiling, he realized he was an Ace now. But in seconds everything changed. Rear gunners tore through the squadron. Screams echoed on the radio. His heart sunk, seeing his friends spiral down in flames. He led them to their deaths. Adrenaline shot up in his blood, anger boiling his senses. As a rear gunner fired at him. Looking over, he lined up his sights. The grass window cracking at the bullet's impact. Unleashing a burst of rounds, the fighter spiraled down. Not in flames, but no man bailed out. Searching for a second target, a sharp, burning pain tore through his body. The fighter dropped. Getting back in control, he leveled out, winching at the pain. Touching his side, he felt holes in his coat. Looking at his fingers, he saw red liquid. He was bleeding. No idea how many bullets pierced his side. He was dying. No denying that. Looking up, he saw only the enemy fighters. His friends were gone. Closing his eyes, his mind spiraled around the stories shared between them. The jokes, silly bets, and the brotherhood between them.
The strikes of bullets forced him back to reality. Looking back, an enemy fighter chased him. Expecting an easy prey. He promised himself one thing. If he was going to die today, he'll being as many of them with him. Going up, he targeted the lead fighter. Inhaling smoke, feeling fluids drip through the crack glass, bullets popping of the rear. Anger filled his emotions as he fired at the fighter. Riping off the wing, switching to another target. As a fighter flew to the sights, he unleashed his fury. The fighter trailed smoke as the Pole burst from below them. Ending the bullets strikes for a few seconds. Turning back down, he trailed another fighter. The rear guns firing. Returning fire, the fighter spiraled down. Bullets struck his tail, looking back he saw two fighters chasing him. Glass shattered, flying into his face, cutting his skin. Looking over, a low gunner was trying to bring down the Pole. Banking down, he line up what remains of the sight. The engine coughed as it was giving it's final breaths. Pressing the trigger, a wave of bullets hit the enemy. Until it spiraled down in flames.
Getting below the formation, he tried to get back up. But the controls wouldn't. Looking back, the horizontal stablizers were shot up, the vertical stablizer hanging by a thread. Hundreds of holes were in his fighter as the two chasers stayed on him. Throwing back the throttle, his speed decresed. The rushing wind pierced his ears as the enemy fighters got in front of him. Pushing the throttle, he did what little he could. The gunners opened fire. Before the pilots could gain attitude, he unleashed the last of his ammo on a fighter. They trailed smoke, forcing them to break off. Leaning forward, he tried to put as weight forward. The engine died as the second fighter got back on his six. Several bursts came, but silence soon filled the sky. Looking back he saw the fighter breaking off. The limp fighter was no longer a threat. They may even consider it a kill. Turning back, the ground grew closer. Leaning back he realized he can't save it. Undoing the straps, he jumped out of the doomed fighter. As the parachute opened, he realized that he was behind enemy lines. It'll be a fight to get back home.