YAKOV

My family immigrated from German to Russia in 1803, after Tsar Alexander I, grandson of Catherine II, reissued her 1763 proclamation of open immigration for foreigners wishing to live in the Russian Empire.

Times were hard for all Nemtsy, which means Germans, or foreigners, who were living in the Volga river valley during those days.  Little work and much persecution following the Pugachev uprising in 1773, the effects are still felt to this day.

I was born in a small village near Kazan in 1919 and Christened Yakov Smirnoff in honor of one of my father’s drinking buddies by the name of  Tushka, who according to rumors was sent to the gulag for drunk and disorderly conduct.  By the way Yakov is a derivative of the German phrase “Schnapps Fördermaschine”, or loosely translated, “bartender”.

I have been interested in aviation for as long as I can remember, but my first real introduction to airplanes came in the summer of 1929, while working as a mess boy at the Lipetsk flying school.  Most of the instructors and staff at the school were Germans, who were helping to shape Lenin’s “Workers and Peasants Red Air Fleet”, and since I spoke German it was easy for me to get a job in the kitchen.

After a few years in the kitchen I was promoted to line boy where I refueled the planes and helped the mechanics drain engine oil, fix tires, stitch wing canvas, and best of all go on test flights to insure the planes were air worthy.  It wasn’t long before I was actually flying the planes during the test flights while the test pilot would sleep off a hangover in the aft cockpit.  On one such occasion,  a young Kadet by the name of  Alexei Smernov, no relation, was passed out drunk in the cockpit when I performed a flawless dead stick three point landing despite a very heavy cross wind.  Unbeknownst to me the commanding officer observed my landing and awarded a medal to the pilot, whom he thought, was Alexei!  Had I not kept my mouth shut poor Alexei would have been on the next train to the gulag, or standing in front of a firing squad.

Despite my German ancestry, I managed to steer clear of the NKVD, even in the late 1930’s during the years of the “Spanish misadventure”, the terrible purges that took place shortly after.

Then in 1939 the call went out for all able-bodied citizens to join the army in preparation for possible action in Manchuria, so it was off to basic training and trenches for me.  After months of mud and sweat and toil in the infantry I received an envelope via special courier from an aerodrome near Moscow.  Inside the envelope was an air medal and a short hand written note that read, “Comrade Yakov, this medal has always rightfully been yours, now get your butt out of that mud and come join me at my Squadron”  the note was signed Polkovnik Alexei Smernov.

Having just arrived to the Squadron today, the adventure begins!