Chapter Text
In the distance, smoke rose above the Russian treetops and the sounds of faraway thumps of artillery were sporadically interrupted by the faint chatter of machine guns. The violence had already been going on for almost ten days and it was a frigid morning in early January when the armorers loaded up the planes, stocking ammunition, and the ground crew did maintenance checks before the first round of missions. Vegeta Knyaz'ov the Fourth had received his orders and conveyed them to his subordinates. His breath clung in the air as he waited to get into his plane.
He had craved something different than the monotony of socialite gatherings his father insisted he attend, and the perpetual party scene his mother insisted on dragging him to represent the family. His younger brother could take up those reins in his opinion; Tarble was infinitely more suited to the role. And so he had enlisted in flight school, quickly excelling and proving himself worthy of missions faster than some of his peers. Eventually after a number of missions, Vegeta had quite the illustrious record for ground attacks. He was especially good at blowing up tanks and causing general mayhem, even in his horrendous excuse for a plane, the Sukhoi Su-2. It was better than the Polikarpov they had trained on, yes, but not by much. It was underpowered, unreliable, and had a pitiful loadout. Its machine guns couldn't handle much more than damaging trucks and cars, but Vegeta still made a name for himself.
Once given the go-ahead, Vegeta took hold of the grab handle on the side of the fuselage, swinging his legs and hoisting himself up onto the wing. Stepping onto the seat of the cockpit and then down onto the floor, he slid his parachute underneath him as he sat and grabbed his helmet from the windshield. Adjusting the strap under his chin, Vegeta tightened his seatbelts and swept the controls to make sure all was in proper order; nothing could replace the feeling of being in the cockpit of his beloved Илюша By the end of 1940, he and his pilots had finally been given new technology by way of the IL-2. She was a beauty. It was like flying a tank in comparison to the Su-2. Without having to look at a checklist, he started the aircraft on muscle memory alone, monitoring the levels and temperature of the fluids. Turning to look out towards his wing of pilots, Vegeta watched while he questioned them over the radio embedded in his helmet.
"Green flight?" His voice rasped and one by one, all of them stuck up their thumbs in agreement. He contacted the ground controller and asked permission to taxi for takeoff and before long they were all in the air, lining up into two finger-four formations. Smudges of dark green passed by below as Vegeta tracked their route against the small map perched on his knee. As they flew, he watched for landmarks to denote their progress, and eventually the last and biggest one came into view. As they went over the old monastery near the Luzha river, he hollered out over the radio to the others.
"следуй за мной!!!" He angled down slightly and spotted the Germans, though it was clear they had also spotted him. Shells whizzed by his plane's cockpit as he lined up for his bombing run. As he propelled forward, he could hear the muffled thuds from the enemy's 20mm guns as they targeted him. Vegeta narrowly avoided being hit and loosed his bombs, climbing back up and circling around. His pilots followed suit, hammering the enemy position. As they turned back in the direction of their base, he spotted more trenches and fired his gun, strafing those below.
Several of the pilots in his wake did the same, seeing trucks and armor around the target zone, and raining hell down on the bastards. As billows of smoke rolled, Vegeta called out over the radio, "формироваться!"
The two groups reformed and headed back towards their home base with negligible damage. He knew this was a lucky first run and didn't expect to have that hold out for long… Vegeta wasn't a pessimist, but a realist. Every time he went out on orders, he was fully prepared to not return. It was the nature of war.
***
They had already gone out and returned twice by the time the sun was almost overhead, though it was still freezing out. His crew was managing despite the barely trained boys that had been appointed just days prior …
By the early summer of 1941 when Germany had invaded Russia by way of Poland, Vegeta's regiment, the SHAP or 4th Ground Attack Regiment had suffered heavy losses. The total numbered fewer than thirty IL-2 Sturmovic pilots with actual planes to fly. The government was doing its utmost and sending in reinforcements, but the new soldiers were barely out of flight school and as green as the grass along the banks of the Volga river. Vegeta and the other SHAP vets had to play mother hen to the young men, giving them "on the job" training during missions. The weeks had turned into months and the weather changed from blazing sun to chilly days and colder nights as the military progressively fell back towards Moscow. Vegeta was now a captain, still helping train the new pups. New to him though was his task as leader of a wing, or two "flights". He was to oversee seven other pilots in missions to hold the capital. So far there had been minimal losses as the Red Army ran ground attacks, hoping to push the German line back.
It was now the third trip in to reload the ammunition onto his plane, his pilots coming in after him, to do the same. As they all geared up to head out again, Vegeta signaled victory to his comrades, and took off into the sky. His IL-2 climbed higher and he angled his way towards their next target, a German position near Maloyaroslavets, just south of their last two runs. Vegeta turned and looked out at the second formation, led by Lieutenant Yamcha Volkov. The man was a decently skilled soldier, but had to constantly be reminded to be less sloppy. Already Vegeta had reprimanded him to tighten up or stop showing off during their flight. This time though, he was performing well. It wasn't Yamcha's fault he had two of the new boys in his group.
September had brought the Germans to the edge of Moscow, and three months later, there was a siege of the city. In the beginning, the battle of Vyazma-Bryansk had been a surprise to the Red Army, and Vegeta's regiment managed to survive. They again suffered heavy losses, most captured as prisoners of war to the Nazis. As the days grew shorter, the onset of rasputitsa began, bringing the autumn rains and sucking mud. Roads became impossible to navigate and slowed the advancing German army, its panzers becoming mired in the muck. Vegeta's regiment had had marvelous fun, as a stuck tank made for an easy target in their IL-2's. Stalin eventually had ordered the evacuation of the city and fresh reserves were being brought in from Siberia. New brigades were being formed deep within the motherland, helping sustain the Russian army.
By the end of November, General Georgy Zhukov had convinced Stalin to release the reinforcements to defend Moscow, and by mid December the Red troops had been successful in holding the city against the over-extended Germans, despite a lack of equipment and training from the new recruits.
As the town came into view, Vegeta called out orders, directing the others to attack the opposite side from his unit.
Everything seemed to be going well until it wasn't. It all went sideways at once. Vegeta had been hit several times on approach before he'd been able to drop his load, but had recovered, nosing up and getting out of range of the guns. The other flight was not so fortunate. Two of the four men in Lt. Volkov's group struggled to release their bombs and get out of the area of opportunity fast enough, resulting in one hitting the other and exploding. Vegeta couldn't hear their screams and he thanked whoever had installed the one way radio in his helmet. As the lieutenant turned to avoid being hit by the debris of his own men, he was targeted and gunned down. The Sturmovic created a fiery crater when it crashed into the cold earth. Vegeta cursed and ordered the remaining pilots to regroup and led them back to camp.
When they returned, he landed and parked, hopping down off the craft swiftly, striding purposefully towards the commander's tent. Throwing open the canvas flap, Vegeta stormed in, eyes blazing and mouth set in a scowl.
"What the fuck Major?! How the fuck am I supposed to lead these men successfully if they're not even trained properly on the planes they're expected to sit in?! We lost three men just now! It's completely insane to keep sending these ill-trained pilots, if you can even call them that, out there!!!" He ranted, gesturing and stabbing the air angrily. Major Bardockov looked up from a large table covered in a gigantic map with sticks and markers noting the location and positions of various units and the enemy. His lips thinned at the short man who had just burst in yelling, and who was now standing there fuming while others in the tent surreptitiously looked on, listening.
"Comrade Captain Knyaz'ov…I urge you to reconsider your tone. I don't have time for this behavior. Go back to your flight and await orders." His tone was sharp and he rounded the table, walking up to the tempestuous soldier, standing toe to toe with the younger man. He was lucky no one else present outranked him except the major. Bardockov glared at Vegeta, daring him to respond. What he didn't expect was the intense glower under the heavy brow, followed by a cracking punch to his jaw. Righting himself, the major immediately returned the hit, landing a punishing blow to the captain's face. Vegeta stood ramrod straight, spitting out a mouthful of blood but not breaking eye contact with his superior. After a beat, he cursed and stomped out, headed in the direction of the barracks.
Major Bardockov rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, watching the soldier go.
***
It was some time later when Vegeta found his privacy invaded by his commanding officer. Bardockov entered his tent without preamble, clearing his throat. Black eyes focused on him, narrowed and full of a quietly simmering rage.
"Look Knyaz'ov, I understand where you're coming from. Don't mistake my brusqueness for a lack of empathy. But this is a war. We all have orders. Since things have grown displeasurable to you, I'm giving you a new assignment." The captain's eyes widened marginally as he listened.
"You'll be headed to the Engels Military Aviation School to train a new regiment, since training is so important to you. Stalin has approved of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment personally, so I expect you to be on your best behavior." Vegeta nodded curtly, the wheels already turning with how to approach training a new batch of pilots.
"I cannot keep you here, after your little tantrum this afternoon. I think you'll do well though. After they have been trained, you will accompany the regiment to the Southern front for harassment and tactical bombing missions." The major gave Vegeta a considering look before his face slipped back into the stern features he typically sported. Turning to leave, he paused at the entry, speaking low.
"For what it's worth, today was a success. The fascists have retreated from their previous position. Good luck Comrade Captain."