Eight of them and two of us. Our prospects before battle
Aren’t bright, but we’ve committed to the fight.
Seryozha1! Hold on, it’s looking dim,
But we we have to get an edge in the game.
I promise to not run away from this airspace.
The numbers don’t matter to me now, -
Today my friend guards my back,
Which means we have evened the odds.
A “Messer”2 perches on my tail, puffing smoke,
His propellers whining and hacking the air.
They don’t even need crosses on their graves,
The ones on their wings will suit them.3
I say, “Number One! Number One! They’re right under you,
I’m turning to cut them off.
Put out your fire! Hide in the clouds! I’ll cover you!”
In battle, there are no miracles.
Sergey! You’re on fire! Put your hope, man,
In the strength of your parachute chords.
No! Too late - a “Messer” too has sets his sights on me.
Farewell! I’ll meet him head on.
I know that others will deal them justice.
But sliding along the clouds,
Our souls now rise, like two airplanes,
That can never fly alone.
The Archangel will tell us: “There’s not much room in Heaven.”
Coming before the gates, they close.
We’ll ask God, “Write my friend and I
Into some celestial regiment’s rolls.”
And I’ll ask the Father, Spirit, and Son,
To fulfill this, my will:
May my friend guard my back in Heaven
Like he did in this, our last, battle.
We’ll ask of God wings and arrows,
For the angels need aces too.
But if they have many fighters already,
Let us be guardians then.
To protect - that too is an honorable mission,
Carrying good luck on one’s wings,
To those like we were-Seryozha and I - in life,
Up in the air and once walking on earth.