By the middle of April 1945, Marshal Koniev’s First
Ukrainian Front had penetrated deep into the eastern half of Czechoslovakia,
while Patton’s Third Army had advanced into the western areas. This prompted
calls from the Czechoslovak government for the immediate transfer of the army
units to the western sectors in order to participate in the imminent
liberation. Nichols, writing to Eden, relayed and endorsed proposals from Hubert
Ripka that such a transfer be made together with a token force of air force
pilots and their machines from Britain. Ripka had suggested that the effect on
morale ‘would be out of all proportion to the actual number of airmen
concerned’. There had obviously been no response because a week later, on 25
April, Ripka wrote to Nichols and again called for the ‘immediate despatch’ of
all possible army and air force units to the fighting front in western
Czechoslovakia, insisting that such a move was ‘essential for home morale’.
In what by then seems to have been its customary practice,
the Air Ministry lingered a while before replying. In fact, it waited until the
war was almost over in Europe before the matter was taken up by Beaumont at the
DAFL. He had been approached in late April by Janoušek, who had urged the
immediate transfer of at least the three fighter squadrons, minus their British
personnel, to the liberated territories. To save any fuss about demobilisation,
the units could move as a detachment of the RAF and then, when the war was
over, a new Anglo-Czechoslovak Agreement could be negotiated. Writing on 5 May
1945 to AM William Dickson, then Assistant Chief of the Air Staff (Policy), he
suggested that the transfer could take place reasonably effectively if they had
a three-month pack-up of spares to be going on with; and, perhaps as his trump
card, he let it be known that the Foreign Office approved. But he also noted
that ‘there may be complications with the Russians with regard to the
employment of these squadrons in Czechoslovakia’. This was a mistake, for if he
really wanted to get anywhere with the plan, it would have been wise to keep
the Russian factor at the lowest possible profile. As it was, he had let the
genie out of the bottle.
Dickson rejected the plan at once. His leading point was
that ‘we can hardly be a party to the despatch of this Czech force into an area
which is under Russian military occupation without having an assurance that the
Russians approve’, and he also pointed out for good measure that they would
have to fly through American air space, so they would need to concur as well.
He then took pains to distance himself from the apparent goodwill of the
Foreign Office, telling Beaumont rather curtly to busy himself with RAF matters
concerning the squadrons, and to let Janoušek know that when he had the
agreement of the Russians, his men could go home. Reasonably enough, the Air
Ministry was prepared to wait for the Foreign Office to give the go-ahead to
the plan, but of particular importance here is the insistence that it should be
the responsibility of the Beneš government to provide evidence of Soviet
concurrence, and it was this condition which became the keynote of almost
everything which followed.
The situation in Prague was complex. Beneš and his
government were already there, having made the journey via the Soviet Union and
through the newly liberated territories in the east. He had left Janoušek and a
handful of other officers in Britain to supervise demobilisation and repatriation.
Fearful of another scenario similar to the one which had paralysed Poland at
the war’s end, he was determined to minimise Russian influences at all costs,
except for provoking a coup. There were powerful communist elements in
Czechoslovakia from the military and political wings, and his position was
always delicately balanced between having enormous numbers of Red Army troops
on his soil and a natural desire of the people to see their men in the fighting
forces come home to a hero’s welcome.
Prague was officially a Soviet zone; the Americans had
agreed to that, and the British had agreed with the Americans. In the eyes of
the Foreign Office, this meant that the matter was virtually removed from
British hands in so far as executive decisions were concerned. All that needed
to be done was: (a) secure Russian approval for the repatriation; (b) let the
Americans know; (c) let them work the logistics out between themselves. All the
British had to do was wave goodbye at the appropriate moment. This, at any
rate, was the plan, and everything now rested upon the Soviet attitude. Letters
to that effect were issued swiftly. Alec Randall in the Foreign Office informed
Hubert Ripka that the RAF would give the green light as soon as the Russians
signalled their consent.
But Ripka was not happy with that at all. The request for
the transfer, he said, had come directly from President Beneš in Prague, and
since the President would not dream of acting against his government’s
interests while still in the Soviet zone of occupation, the latter’s approval
could therefore be taken for granted. The Foreign Office reacted positively to
this. A meeting took place on 17 May, when this argument was thrashed out with
the DAFL, and all seemed content that Ripka’s assessment of the situation in
Prague was sound enough. British caution prevailed, however, and it was felt
prudent to be absolutely clear that the Russians would not object. Philip
Nicols, due to leave for Prague as the British ambassador, was told that the
Beneš government should obtain Moscow’s ‘formal agreement’. This meant their
agreement in writing, and this also proved to be another mistake. For if the
British government had been sufficiently assertive and simply sent the
Czechoslovaks home, much of what followed might never have happened.
Even the hitherto sceptical figure of Dickson aligned
himself with the view that the Russians had approved the transfer by virtue of
their silence. Indeed, he was positively sanguine. He thought the three-month
detachment plan to be a good one too, allowing the British to maintain
influence over the Czechoslovak Air Force while at the same time providing a
useful firewall against any accusations that the British were supplying a
foreign power in the heart of Eastern Europe; after all, as a detachment the
Czechs would still be a part of the RAF. Embracing the political dimension, he
added:
Moreover, I suggest that there is nothing that the
Russians want more than for us to be difficult in helping the Czechs. The
former are offering equipment to the Czech Army with both hands, and they will
be delighted at anything which will tend to make the Czechs turn more and more
to them for help. The Czechs do not want to divorce themselves from the RAF at
this stage and have asked for three months grace in which to consider the
return to Czechoslovakia all of their units, [though] they are most anxious for
the fighter squadrons to return and remain there while deliberations are
proceeding.
The irony in this last sentence is exquisite: after five
long years of struggling for independence, convenience (and perhaps political
expediency) had forced a change of heart, and now the last thing the
Czechoslovaks wanted was to be separated from the RAF.
This was the position on 25 May, approximately five weeks
after Ripka’s initial request for the return of the squadrons. And yet deep in
Whitehall, some minds remained uneasy about the lack of definite Soviet
approval. A week went by, and perhaps there was much finger-tapping and
pencil-chewing in the Foreign Office because by the end of May doubts were
beginning to surface. The focus was not so much upon whether or not the
Russians agreed to the transfer, but under what circumstances the fighter squadrons
were to return. If, for example, they returned with RAF markings on the planes,
would that arouse Soviet suspicions that the British were emphasising their
relationship with the Czechs? But if they returned with Czech markings, would
that give the Soviets a chance to treat the contingent as fair game? As Jack
Ward noted in a long minute on the subject: ‘I believe that the Russians have
already collared the Czech Army, but that we still have a chance for the air
force.’ Such doubts were enough to force a retreat to the original position.
The Russians must give their absolute and unconditional approval before a
single kitbag was packed.
Meanwhile, six hundred miles or so to the east, the
frustration was increasing. Men within the Beneš government thought the British
were deliberately stalling to force the hand of the Soviets, and in a broadcast
from Prague in early June, Beneš had raised the stakes by promising his airmen
that they would be home soon. In England too, the levels at which the problem
was being discussed were also raised. The Chiefs of Staff Committee drafted a
report for Churchill on 7 June with a brief synopsis of the problem, placing
emphasis upon the fact that an immediate postwar association with the air force
would provide ‘a valuable connecting link with the Czechoslovak Government’.
Churchill had recently issued his ‘standstill’ order regarding Royal Air Force
strength in Europe, meaning that there must be no immediate depletion of
numbers, hence the Committee’s decision to refer this matter to him. After
declaring that 311 Liberator Squadron was no longer required as a service unit,
and that the three fighter squadrons were ‘efficient fighter and ground attack
units’, the Committee decided that ‘the loss to our fighting strength will not
be appreciable’ if they returned in the near future. On the same day, the Air
Staff issued a note for general circulation to all relevant departments within
the Air Ministry supporting the proposals, and although both bodies still
emphasised the need for Russian concurrence, it was accepted that a postwar
agreement with the Czechoslovaks could be politically useful ‘at a time when
they will be in many respects under the dominating influence of the USSR’.
Finally, again on the 7th, Nichols sent a despatch for Cabinet distribution
which reviewed the military situation in Prague. Marshal Koniev had received
the Freedom of the City, and again Beneš had called for the swift return of his
air force. On the 8th, the Air Staff drafted an annex to the Committee’s report
recommending the transfer; and on the 11th, the COS report, together with the
Air Staff annex, was sent to Churchill. On the 13th he wrote above the
document: ‘Let them go back forthwith.’
Once the great man had spoken, the ball was now in play. On
the same day, Dickson issued a general directive stating that the Prime
Minister and the Chiefs of Staff had decided that the four squadrons were to
return at once, and therefore all the relevant directorates should prepare. The
detachment scheme would still apply, ‘but the Russians will not be told for the
present. To them, the move will appear as the permanent return of the
Czechoslovak Air Force to Czechoslovakia.’ As always, the parcel was tied with
the now familiar ribbon, ‘everything subject to Russian agreement’.
We might pause at this moment and consider the final couplet
of this directive. On the one hand, the Soviets were to be deceived; on the
other, they were expected to give their consent to this deception, albeit
unknowingly. Having lost its value as a military arm, the Czechoslovak Air
Force had now completed its transformation into a political tool once again.
The British were not remotely interested in whether or not the contingent would
be a viable force in its homeland, because the opportunity to claim a stake in
a Central European country presently occupied by the armies of the Soviet Union
was now of far greater importance. Furthermore, ‘Russian agreement’ was rapidly
becoming something of a diplomatic unicorn – sought by many, seen by none. No
evidence has come to light during this study which proves conclusively that the
Soviets made any pronouncement on the subject, negative or otherwise, and all
the contemporary evidence, circumstantial though it is, indicates that what little
interest they had in the matter was generally positive.
Oddly enough, when something which approached consent did
finally appear, the British refused to believe it. On 13 June, Seligman wrote
to Christopher Warner and told him of a letter, apparently received by the US
5th Army in Plzeň, which stated that the new Red Army commander in Prague –
named as Major-General Paramzik – had confirmed that the Czechoslovak
government now had ‘full and unrestricted access’ to Prague airport. An
extract, over Paramzik’s name, found its way on to Seligman’s desk:
Will you please inform the Allied Supreme Council that
the High Command of the Red Army have ordered that British aircraft carrying
military or civilian persons may fly without restriction and are to land at
Ruzýn aerodrome near Prague. The aircraft so landing are guaranteed an
unrestricted return flight.
When Janoušek heard of this, he claimed that it gave carte
blanche to the Czechoslovak Air Force to return immediately. Seligman
commented: ‘He was quite emphatic about this, but we do not altogether share
the view, although it is true to say that this is the first occasion on which
we have seen anything resembling a permit of any sort from the Russians for
Czechoslovak personnel to land in their own country.’ Warner then transmitted a
message to Nichols in Prague:
Authority has now been received for transfer of Czech air
squadrons to Czechoslovakia with their aircraft as soon as satisfactory
evidence is received that Russians agree. Air Marshal Janoušek has endeavoured
to convince the Air Ministry that they have already done so, but the letter
from the Major-General of Red Army Prague Command . . . which he produced as
evidence, appeared to the Air Ministry clearly to refer to flights of courier
aircraft since it referred to return flights from Czechoslovakia as well as
flights in.
One might be forgiven for thinking that this was taking
caution to excess. All parties well knew that the move could never have been
accomplished in one straight hop from Britain to Czechoslovakia, and that a
substantial degree of ferrying of stores, effects and personnel – civilian and
military – would be involved. Even the most critical reading of Paramzik’s
‘permit’ forces the conclusion that all these aspects had been covered, and
perhaps the only food for pedants lies in the phrase ‘British aircraft’, which
could be interpreted as aircraft manufactured in Britain or aircraft with
British markings – a distinction which would have affected the proposal to
livery the planes in Czechoslovak colours and symbols. Nevertheless, this was
not the point which Warner focused upon, and in closing he informed Nichols
that a three-month pack-up of spares would be supplied:
It must, of course, be obvious both to the Russians and
the Czechs that the former will be able to reduce the squadrons to impotence,
if they so desire, by refusing them aviation spirit and by declining to agree
to their being supplied from here with the major replacements which will
gradually become necessary. The Air Ministry calculate, however, that even in
this event the air squadrons should be able to do an adequate amount of flying
for a period of about three months to have a good propaganda effect.
It is possible to defend the rather cynical position adopted
here by the Air Ministry, given the huge problems that were developing in
Poland at the time, but the way they were going about it handed all the winning
cards to the Russians who, when all is said and done, hardly had anything to do
with the situation at all.
But Karel Janoušek cared nothing for the politics just then.
As far as he was concerned, he and his men could go home at last after more
than six years in exile. Emboldened by the prospect, he asked that all three
fighter squadrons be completely re-equipped with brand new Spitfire IX HF(E)
aircraft so that they might not have to participate in the victory parade in
tired machines. This, thought the Air Ministry, was a good idea. Almost at
once, however, it was pointed out that this might offend the Russians, since
they had been denied these very planes at a late stage in the war, and it took
another couple of weeks before a compromise was reached – one full squadron
would be so refitted and the others given a thorough makeover. In the event, it
was at last decided that all the squadrons should receive new machines, but
over a staggered period finishing in early August 1945.
Amid all this confusion, politics surfaced again. Nichols
had been busy in Prague still trying to secure cast-iron Soviet consent. He had
then been told that all Red Army units were scheduled for withdrawal during the
first two weeks of July, and that Beneš and his ministers ‘were loth to
approach the Russians for they did not consider the latter to have any
authority in the matter’. One purpose of his note was to ask if this withdrawal
obviated the need for Soviet approval anyway, although he had heard that a
request was shortly to be made to Marshal Koniev for his forces to supply
aviation spirit once the squadrons returned. Surely, it was argued, Russian
agreement would be implicit if the answer was positive. The Czechs themselves
also insisted that the military command in Prague was ‘wholly Czechoslovak’,
and the delay was making matters worse, not better, in their relations with the
Soviets. At last, on 18 July, Dickson gave the ‘go’ order. On 7 August, all
three fighter squadrons would return to Prague in mixed livery, the crew all
wearing RAF uniform, with prominence given to their own national ranks and
service badges. As it happened, a one-week delay was caused by bad weather, but
at 2 p.m. on Monday 13 August 1945, all 54 Spitfires landed at Ruzýn airport in
blazing sunshine, having twice flown low over the city in close formation.
The squadrons were reviewed prior to departure by AM Sir
John Slessor on 3 August. In a speech originally drafted for Portal, he paid a
handsome tribute to the officers and men of this gallant little force and made
useful references to a desire for postwar collaboration and friendship. After
they had gone home, a week-long party got under way, during which everybody who
mattered mounted the podium and recited glowing tributes and heartfelt thanks
to the RAF and all it had done to keep the nation’s hopes alive during the
years of occupation. Present throughout this week of celebration (in which, it
is said, the pubs ran dry of beer, leading some hotels to import emergency
supplies from southern Germany) were an outstanding array of Royal Air Force
commanders, many of whom received the Order of the White Lion from the hands of
the President. Nichols returned a detailed report of this event also, drawing
Ernest Bevin’s attention to the valuable opportunities afforded for high-level
discussions between British and Czechoslovak officers. As far as the Ambassador
was concerned, this did much ‘to serve the interests of His Majesty’s
Government’, and the jolly atmosphere ‘demonstrated that the mutual respect and
good fellowship established under war conditions . . . are still potent factors
in the relations between the two countries’.
So it had all ended in handshakes, backslaps, medals and
smiles all round. In that last week of August 1945, the Czechoslovak Air Force
was the nearest it ever came to being a true ally, at least in British eyes and
those of the Czechoslovak press. All the quibbles and niggles of five long
years of war were put aside or forgotten amid the swirl of parties and
speeches, but as we shall see, the bonhomie was not to last long. The seeds of
disaster had already been sown and were starting to germinate. The British, by
constantly seeking Soviet approval, had given time for powerful anti-Western
blocs to develop inside the Czechoslovak military, although it should have been
perfectly easy to understand why Beneš did not want to go cap in hand to the
Soviets and ask their permission for his air force to return to its homeland.
Such an action would have been contrary to his hunger for prestige and all his
beliefs about the sovereignty of his country. The British had fooled themselves
into believing that the Russians cared about what this tiny country did or did
not do with its equally tiny air force, and by concentrating on that instead of
supporting their ally to every last degree, they came away with nothing.
Things began to go sour early in September. The British had
confidently expected negotiations towards an new air agreement to begin as soon
as things began to settle down in Czechoslovakia, but then came sudden news of
a major upheaval in the organisation of the Czechoslovak Air Force itself. The
new Director of the DAFL, Air Cdre Ferdinand West, informed the Foreign Office
that Janoušek had been removed as C-in-C and replaced by Slezák, who had now
been openly proclaiming his communist sympathies:
It seems that the Headquarters of the Czechoslovak Air
Force in Prague has been almost entirely re-staffed. Those Czech officers of
high rank who held appointments in the RAFVR have been dispersed and, in nearly
every case, are filling relatively unimportant posts.
So the wheel had turned full circle, and the man who had
deposed the hated Slezák in 1940 now found himself pushed aside in favour of
him. West continued:
I gather this internal trouble is largely political and
Janoušek has been accused of being too Anglophile in his tendencies and not
sufficiently appreciative of the Russians. Extreme leftists have even labelled
him as a Fascist and anti-Jew leader.
Another telegram, this time from Nichols, told London that
‘the Russians are displeased that most personalities holding executive positions
in other ministries are those with wartime experience in England and who
possess no undue communist tendencies’. Beneš was already losing control of his
armed forces, and now we may glimpse the Soviet strategy regarding the return
of the squadrons in August, for it would have been counter-productive to place
any obstacles in the way of the transfer when the overall aim was to get the
men home and then begin the process of discarding the ‘dangerous’ elements. The
delay merely enabled them to strengthen their power base throughout the summer.
London was shaken by this news, but by no means was all hope
lost. It now became absolutely vital to secure a re-equipment deal with Prague
before the Soviets completed the process of absorption. The omens looked favourable.
No one had raised any objections to the supply and maintenance of the squadrons
under the detachment plan, and senior pro-communists within the Czechoslovak
Ministry of Defence had let it be known that sixty Spitfires might be the first
item in a substantial order to follow soon. The focus now shifted to the
organisation of a full expedition with the authority to negotiate on behalf of
the Czechoslovak government. Janoušek had been sent from Prague to wind up the
Inspectorate in London, but he dropped by at the Foreign Office and led it to
believe that he would head the Mission when it came. In return, London told
Prague to bait the hook with a promise of assistance ‘on a generous scale’ if
the Mission arrived with full negotiating powers. Nichols returned with a firm
date, 9 December, when a team of senior air force officers would arrive with a
long list of requirements and plenty of money to spend.
What followed then was a series of postponements. Christmas
came and went, and what few communications there were hinted that the Russians
were also preparing a list of their own. The promise of a ‘substantial gift’ of
equipment to the Czechoslovak Air Force from Moscow chilled British hearts, but
then out of the blue a new date for the Mission was floated: 6 February 1946.
More to the point, the Czechoslovaks had requested another pack-up of spares to
maintain the existing Spitfire squadrons, but as a minute stated: ‘we cannot go
on indefinitely sending supplies until the policy and financial aspects of the
matter are settled’. Within days, however, another postponement had been
called.
By late February, a sense of urgency was creeping into the
despatches – not panic exactly, but something close to it, as it became
apparent to all that the last chance of holding on to a position of influence
was sliding away. The Air Attaché in Prague, Gp Capt G.M. Wyatt, was informed
that preparations were nearly complete, yet he should not delay any longer,
‘but approach the Czechs in the strongest possible terms and press them to send
an Air Mission’. As more bait, the Air Ministry suggested that he tell it at
once that any discussions now would not commit it to a final decision, and to
perhaps hint that growing shortages of materials meant that action sooner
rather than later might be in their favour.
Wyatt replied quickly, having consulted Nichols, and both
were agreed that there was ‘practically no chance of persuading the
Czechoslovak Government to discuss future equipment’ at that time. The reason
given was that the impending elections in Czechoslovakia made it likely that
the government would not ‘risk discussions on this subject with us until
Russian intentions are clearer’. Within five days, however, Wyatt telegraphed
again and told London that a Mission would be despatched soon, but Janoušek ‘frankly
disliked the idea of heading a Mission whose function was to sever rather than
enhance connections with the RAF’.
After yet another short postponement, the Czechoslovak Air
Mission finally arrived in Britain and convened on 3 April 1946. Janoušek was its
leader, but Slézak was not among the team. Swiftly discussed was the supply of
72 Spitfires, 24 Mosquitoes, 4 training aircraft and enough bombs, ammunition
and auxiliary equipment to sustain ten days of fully mobilised combat, all at
the knock-down price of £354,000. This the Mission accepted with thanks. Then,
amid many fine speeches, the sad duty of the Committee was to formally end the
Anglo-Czechoslovak military association which had begun in the awesome chaos of
the summer of 1940. It was agreed by all parties that on 30 June 1946 the
Czechoslovak Section (RAFVR) would cease to exist as a legal and political
entity, and the supporting agreement would be terminated. All that remained to
be done was for the Czechoslovak government to ratify the re-equipment plan and
then a new relationship could begin.
Janoušek and his team returned to Prague with the draft of
the new agreement in his pocket. The Air Ministry could do nothing but wait
upon events. Five weeks of silence passed. Then, in mid-May, a top secret
telegram arrived from Wyatt which indicated that new Soviet aircraft, possibly
as many as ninety, were flying in from Russian bases and being positioned under
hangars in aerodromes across the Republic. In a state of some alarm, he
admitted that all ‘previous direct and indirect enquiries regarding Russian
equipment . . . have always received indefinite and evasive answers’. He
contacted Janoušek who told him that the draft Agreement had yet to reach the
Cabinet for discussion. Wyatt noted: ‘The delivery of Russian aircraft at this
time may be a Communist pre-election gambit, for the people are being told the
aircraft are a gift from the Russians.’ Janoušek told him that unofficial
sources said otherwise, that a high price was being charged, and that, in any
case, the general staff were now said to be uninterested in purchasing British
aircraft.
In early June, the Air Ministry lost patience and told Wyatt
to ascertain whether there would be firm orders or not, and to set 31 July as
the deadline, after which the aircraft would be supplied to another buyer. If
Wyatt replied, the document has not survived, but a note from him to the Air
Ministry sent on 2 September 1946 confirmed that the agreement had still not
yet been signed. From that date onwards, the files are silent.
The Communist takeover of power in the coup of February 1948
was immediately followed by a direct assault on former members of the
Czechoslovak wartime forces, first the ex-RAF, then the members of the
Czechoslovak army in the West, as they were considered to have been influenced
far too much by their surroundings and experiences during the war, and finally
non-Communist members of the Czechoslovaks from the USSR who had seen too much
during their service there. Within days of the coup, scores of officers and
NCOs were dismissed as politically unreliable, either because of their known
anti-communist views or because they were married to English girls.
Many of these started fleeing the country when they saw the
writing on the wall. Some fled on foot across the borders to Germany,
unfortunately were caught and jailed. Others left some with their families, in
‘borrowed’ aircraft and landed in Germany, Belgium, France and some made it
directly to England. To the Czechs Great Britain was a natural refuge, not only
because of the recent common fight against Germans but also primarily, because
its ideals of democracy and humane approach to all problems were the same for
which they themselves had fought and for which many had given their lives. Of
those airmen who came to Britain, and there were several hundred, many were
accepted back into the Royal Air Force. Others dispersed all over the world
with the result that the ‘Free Czechoslovak Airforce Association Abroad’ had
members not only in Europe but also in the USA, Australia, Brazil and South
Africa.
Those who for various reasons did not or couldn’t go into
exile for the second time paid dearly for their wartime past. They were
considered unreliable, a threat to the revolution, many were arrested, sent to
prison, to labour camps (mainly into mines) or so called rehabilitation
centres. Even Colonel Fajtl, the Commander of the Czechoslovak fighter regiment
in the USSR and other members of his unit were incarcerated in the ’50’s. In
these years of terror and darkness, monster trials took place in which many
officers were sentenced to death or life imprisonment. Among them General Pika
and Air Marshal Janoušek, the former was executed, the latter’s sentence was
commuted to life of which he served 13 years.
In 1955 Czechoslovakia became a founder member of the Warsaw
Pact. The Czechoslovak Air Force was equipped with Soviet aircraft and followed
its doctrines and tactics. Mostly Mikoyan-Gurevich aircraft (MiGs) were bought.
MiG-15, MiG-19, and MiG-21F fighters were produced under licence; in the 1970s,
MiG-23MF were acquired, followed by MiG−23MLs and MiG-29s in the 1980s.
In 1951 the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Air Defence Districts of State
Territory were created, at about the same time as the creation of the 15th
Fighter Air Corps. The 15th Fighter Air Corps controlled the 1st, 3rd, 5th, and
166th Fighter Air Divisions at various times; the 166th Fighter Air Division
later became the 2nd Fighter Air Division. From 1964 to 1969 the 10th Air Army
included the 46th Transport Air Division, of two regiments of helicopters and a
transport regiment.
