Itís two vs eight, thatís the rules of engagement,
The field is uneven for us.
Seryózha, chin up, we are not gonna make it,
Their trumps must be evened and fast.
This heavenly square is not one that Iím leaving.
The numbers donít matter at all.
Today I am guarded in flight by my wingman,
And this easily evens the odds.
A Messer came up on my six, now itís smoking,
Itís prop now is howling like two.
To mark their graves one donít need any crosses,
The crosses on rudders will do!
Red Leader, Red Leader, theyíre coming, my brother,
To meet them I cut to my right.
Go up to the clouds! Bank away and Iíll cover!
No miracles happen in fight!
Sergéi! Youíre on fire! You are now at the mercy
Of strength of your canopy folds!
Too late! Thereís a fighter approaching - a Messer.
So long! I will meet him head-on.
Iím certain: the score will be settled by others,
Our souls to the heavens depart.
Theyíll fly through the clouds together like gliders,
For they cannot be left apart.
Archangel will tell us: "Itís tough in the Heaven!"
As soon as he closes the gate,
Weíll ask God Almighty to sign us together
To serve in the angels brigade!
Addressing the Father, the Son, and the Spirit,
Iíll ask to fulfill my last will:
My friend should be there, to protect me each minute,
Just as in this battle he did.
Weíll ask the Almighty for wings and for arrows,
An ace among angels they need.
And if they already have fighters too many,
In guardians we can enlist.
To guard someoneís life is a duty of honor,
To carry good fortune to those,
Who acted in life just like we with Seryózha -
Both in the blue skies and on earth.