I should have been on leave.

We'd been patrolling in search of Georgian insurgents for weeks, often flying as many as three or four sorties per day.

We were tired.

I was tired.

We'd been promised a weekend pass to leave the hateful "tent village" of our FARP. Dimitry and I were planning to head into Kislovodsk for beer, vodka and girls... but not necessarily in that order.



Kislovodsk isn't a huge city, but the idea of getting off the base for a couple of days made it seem like paradise.

We almost made it. Dimitry and I were actually in the UAZ with the engine turning over when the call came in and the breathless lieutenant came racing out of the communications bunker.



The news was bad. It always is.

One of our Su-25s had been shot down not far from the border town of Habaz. An Mi-8 Hip (callsign 42) on standby SAR had already been scrambled and was en route for our camp where Dimitry and I would be expected to form up in our Ka-50s, escort it to the extraction site and then provide CAS in the event of any hostile activity.

With a deep sigh, Dimitry and I suited up, headed to the pad and began our respective start up procedures.



I was first off the ground...



...and Dimitry was airborne mere moments afterwards.

Our timing was pretty much perfect. The Mi-8 was just passing overhead as we rose into the air, allowing us to perform a gentle rudder turn before pitching down and accelerating in order to catch up with the chubby little transport helicopter.



We'd just reached the outskirts of Kislovodsk when we caught up with the Mi-8 and fell into formation. I couldn't resist a wistful glance downwards towards what might have been.



I suspect that Dimitry was feeling exactly the same, but we had a job to do. Somewhere out in Indian country was a lonely, frightened Grach pilot that desperately needed our help.

Taking a deep breath to clear my head, I tightened my harness, performed a quick scan of the instruments and then left Kislovodsk far behind me.



The flat urban, industrial and suburban sprawls of Kislovodsk soon gave way to the rolling hill and forests of the Caucasus Mountains.



The sense of scale and immense natural beauty on such a warm summer's evening was breathtaking. If ever there was a land worth fighting over, this was surely it.

The stunning scenery relaxed me. It made the flight feel like a training mission and perhaps that was my first mistake. All I know is that I was so distracted that I almost missed the town of Habaz as it emerged from a valley to fill the left side of my cockpit canopy.



It was only then that I realized how close we were to the extraction site.

Before I had a chance to give it any further consideration, the Mi-8 suddenly rolled to the right and dived for the deck. It was only instinct that enabled me to follow the turn as my conscious mind was still in the process of switching back on.



The pilot of the Mi-8 radioed and requested that Dimitry and I stay high in order to provide cover while he and his crew stayed down in the weeds. Although he didn't say it, his concern was clear - the insurgents would likely be hunting down the Grach pilot and they'd surely see the heavy, slow-flying SAR helicopter as too good a target-of-opportunity to pass up.



The Hip pilot's concern seemed well founded as we approached the extraction and saw streams of tracer fire flitting across the valley down near the stream.



It was here that everything went wrong.

I went "heads down" in the cockpit, turning on the Master Arm, activating the laser and selecting my rocket pods. It was during this opening phase of the encounter that I blanked out the frantic radio calls of the Hip pilot in favour of ensuring that I was ready for the fight.

It was a mistake that was to have enormous consequences for more than one person.

As I approached the firefight, I struggled to see exactly where the tracers were coming from. The adrenaline was flowing and my heart was pounding with the sickening realization that I had to act and act now or else it might be too late.

As far as I could tell, a lot of the fire seemed to be coming from a small house alongside which was parked a small UAZ.



I lined up and fired off a short salvo of rockets.



My rounds flew true and the house took several direct hits.



It was then that I became aware of the desperate "Knock it off! Knock it off!" calls coming from both the Hip pilot and Dimitry. A cold chill rolled down my spine and then settled as a frigid, agonizing ball of ice in my stomach.

"Our pilot was in that house! Didn't you hear 42's call?". It was Dimitry's voice.

Another voice cut through - the voice of the Hip pilot. "Are you blind? The insurgents are on the damn hillside!".

I glanced across to my right in response to this latest call and the sick feeling in my stomach nearly tore me in two.



Sure enough, there were the insurgents on the treeline... firing at the very house that I'd just attacked.

"Wait!"

It was Dimitry's voice again.

"I've got movement. Looks like a UAZ moving away from the house. Seems like our guy has the lives of a cat!"



Suddenly recharged, I stood the Shark on its tail and stepped on the right rudder to pull the aircraft's nose onto the correct targets.

Lining the bad guys up was easy and I began rippling off salvos.



My first rounds hit perfectly.



A gentle touch of the rudder and a stab at the pickle button and another salvo was on its way.



The result was inevitable.

The grin on my face could have ripped it in two. We'd salvaged victory from the jaws of defeat. Better yet, my own stupidity had been a consequence-free lesson in the importance of concentration and multitasking on the battlefield. It was a terrifying freebie, but a freebie nonetheless.

Or so I thought.

My reverie was cut short by another radio call from the Hip pilot - "I think we have a problem, guys".

It only took a glance to my right to see what the Hip pilot was referring to.



The UAZ was a burning wreck. No one could possibly have survived.

We'd come so close, but the Grach pilot was surely dead.

"This is 42 - we're going in for a closer look. We're going to land just West of the burning vehicle. Provide cover and stay alert for any additional insurgents in the trees".

The minutes passed like hours... but then a miracle.

"This is 42 - we have him! We have the pilot! He's in bad shape, but he's alive... just. We're going to get him back to the helicopter and then head for Nalchik airbase. They've got the best burns and trauma units in the entire Caucasus. We need to move fast, though".



As we climbed away from the extraction site in loose formation, I felt sick to my stomach. This was all my fault.

If I'd been less preoccupied feeling sorry for myself over my cancelled leave in Kislovodsk, I'd have had the weapons prepared well before we reached the extraction zone.

If I'd taken the extra time to just think instead of impulsively acting, I would have realized that the tracers were going towards the house, not coming from it.



In an effort to concentrate my mind, I moved into position just behind and to the right of the Hip. I couldn't help but keep staring at the helicopter and imagining its passenger. Not half an hour ago, he'd been frightened and alone - lost behind enemy lines and desperately praying for rescue. He must have felt like his prayers had been answered when he heard our rotors approaching from the East, but now he was burnt, broken and bleeding in the cold, noisy, harsh transport compartment of the Hip...

...and all thanks to my idiocy.



I tucked in tight and maintained close formation in order to keep my mind fully occupied with something other than the horrendous mistakes I'd made.

Ironically, that turned out to be my second mistake of the day.

It all happened as we were approaching the town of Zayukovo.



I'd become so focused on staying in tight formation with 42 that I'd totally lost situational awareness. The first indication I had that something was wrong was when the Hip suddenly banked away down and to the left, spewing flares as it went.



There was no time to think about it or ask questions. I followed suit and began kicking out flares of my own - extending out to the North as I desperately searched for threats.



Whatever it was that 42 had seen, however, he was unable to avoid it.



Amazingly, the hit wasn't fatal. The pilot and co-pilot somehow managed to get the engine fire under control and stabilized the stricken helicopter before limping on towards Nalchik.

I was furious.

My first mistake of the day nearly resulted in the death of a man. My second mistake of the day had nearly caused the death of four.

For the briefest of moments, I considered cruising over the town in search of the missile's launch site, but then sanity finally refocused me. If the shooter was a lone man with an Igla, he had a far greater chance of spotting me and getting another shot off than I did of picking him out amid the myriad buildings and wooded areas of the town.

Coming to my senses, I hauled the cyclic to the left and swept quickly away from the town.



The remainder of the flight to Nalchik was comparatively uneventful, but the events of the day still preyed on my mind. Dimitry, to his credit, kept his own counsel, but we'd been friends and a combat pairing for many years so it didn't take much for me to imagine what he was thinking.



Eventually, Nalchik appeared on the horizon.



It was at this point that I got a call from a 42. They had just arrived at Nalchik having nursed their injured bird back from the debacle at Zayukovo.

An ambulance had met them at the apron and immediately taken the critically wounded Grach pilot to the burns and trauma facility. The prognosis was uncertain, but he was alive and in the best possible hands.

It wasn't much, but it was something.



As good as this news was, it almost led to my third mistake of the day.

I was cruising towards the runway at Nalchik, thinking about the Grach's pilot, when I was surprised to see a massive helicopter cutting across my nose in what appeared to be an evasive maneuver. I'd clearly been so preoccupied with the events of the day that I'd lost situational awareness... again.

Closer inspection revealed that the helicopter with which I'd just had the near miss was an Mi-26 - an old, but undeniably beautiful bird.



I got another glimpse of it as I eased onto finals. It was certainly a pleasant distraction from the ugliness and foolishness of the preceding hours.



Physically and emotionally exhausted, I elected not to land on the runway. Instead, I picked a landing point on the ramp off to the left.



It was only as I was coming in to land that I realised that my neighbors were to be a pair of Su-25 Grachs.

The irony wasn't lost on me.



Once I'd landed and secured the aircraft, the tiredness hit me like a tidal wave. I felt as though I hadn't slept in weeks. I simply slumped into my harness and had to wait for the crew chief to come and help me out of the cockpit.



No charges were ever brought against me. Dimitry never spoke of the events of that day and the official report from the crew of 42 made no mention of the fact that I'd been explicitly told not to fire on the house.

They'd all been in the same position and they all knew the strain we'd been operating under. I guess they saw no value in a witch hunt.

Were they right to cover for me?

I still don't know.

And what about the pilot of the Grach?

I phoned the trauma unit at Nalchik a couple of times, but they wouldn't reveal details of his condition to non-family members.

I never did find out whether he lived or died...

... until today, that is. Five and a half years later.

Today, I received a Christmas card from a Major Grigory Dubrovsky (ret). It turns out that Major Dubrovsky was the man we rescued that day. He was in hospital for nearly a year before being released and receiving a medical discharge from the air force.

The Christmas Card mentioned that Major Dubrovsky and his wife Lena had just given birth to their first child - a daughter named Yulia - and wanted to say "Thank you" to the men that played such a part in bringing him home safely. I spoke to Dimitry and he confirmed that he received a similar card, too.

I don't know how to reply to Major Dubrovsky. Maybe I never will. Perhaps I never should.

I guess the important thing is that he's alive and happy and has his wife and daughter, but it doesn't stop the guilt.

Maybe one day.