I am a pilot, a fighter, Six fly-outs per day. Now hear of a Messerschmitís fire, Of two Focke-Wulfs that were diving... Sure, it all can wait. Right now thereís a squadron preparing: nine bombers Take off to fly through the night. Well, let me start in a logical order, Why get ahead all the time? Today our Brest was recaptured. But yesterday we flew there to bomb. I can tell a lie from true stories For me itís obligatory, But Brest is my house and my mom. We flew with nine planes from a heavy bomb squadron; Depressing: our planes bomb our land! You see, I canít follow the logical order Again, I get ahead of the end. Iím losing my nerve not so often: An ace, but itís our Brest not theirs! When bombers began to deliver, I almost pressed on a trigger, When one of them passed in crosshairs. Eventually, bombing was done by our heavies. Below all looked proper as well. And everything went as it should, and the landing, Again, I get ahead of myself. I am a pilot, a fighter, But what an unpleasant affair: I flew tonight to provide cover; Please send me to fly yet another, But only donít tell me where.
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2021