by Brian Bakos
Question is: will we still be alive to benefit from this miraculous deliverance?
Mostly the talk is about fear for loved ones being killed in the air raids, about cherished homes being destroyed, about women and children left to fend for themselves in the smoking ruins of our cities. This topic far overshadows discussion of the second front that everyone longs for so much. Faith in the second front is vanishing anyway, replaced by a grim fatalism.
And always the gnawing certainty that the hammer will fall upon us next.
I try to close my mind to all such chatter and focus exclusively on my mission. But one night, the constant drumbeat of fear talk weighs heavily upon me, robbing me of sleep. I leave my cot and wander outside to the porch.
Above me vaults a fantastically clear sky loaded with stars; a single cloud puff covers the sliver of moon, diffusing its light. I inhale deeply, trying to draw some of the serenity into myself. I hear someone else exiting the barracks. It’s Katella. He takes up position beside me.
“It all seems so beautiful now,” I say.
“Yes.” Katella gestures toward the heavens. “Looking at that, it’s hard to believe in anything else, isn’t it?”
The ground is silvery gray. I can see the trees of the nearby forest patch. Closer in, a single tree with a pronounced crook in its middle bends backward as if in awe of the celestial glory. Unguarded words come to my lips.
“I’m sick of all the whining talk,” I say. “We are the ones who started this war, and now it’s coming back to us with a vengeance. What did people expect?”
Katella says nothing about my treasonous comment, but I think I detect a slight nod. He returns to the barracks. A few minutes later, I follow.
By a turn of fate, I am assigned to the same airbase where Stilikan served. We were supposed to go up north, as I learned from a gabby clerk at HQ, but were diverted here when the northern offensive overran our positions there.
Stilikan’s old squadron transferred out some time ago, but many among the ground crew remember him and speak in glowing terms. I hear Bekar’s exclamation repeated in various ways: “Aren’t you the spitting image!”
The partisans who murdered my brother are nearby – I know that in my innermost being. At night, I feel their presence on the edge of my dreams, can almost smell their unholy stench. In the daytime, I look for them below my wings. I feel drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Will I smother that flame or be consumed by it?
Hell, I’m not offended by the idea of irregular forces operating behind our lines. How would I react if an invader came to my country? I’d be out in the forests, too, fighting back any way I could. But what they did went far beyond military necessity. It was sadistic, cold-blooded murder.
They’d had a high-value prisoner in their custody whom they could have exchanged for any number of their captured comrades. Or they could have handed him over to their regular troops as a POW. But they didn’t do that. Instead, they chose to exercise vicious blood lust upon a helpless victim.
Why?
I yearn for an opportunity to confront those savages with a gun in my hands. One afternoon, quite unexpected, it comes to me.
29. The Chasm Breaks Open
The wet, stormy day and a half during which we’d been grounded comes to an end leaving clear skies and fresh breezes in its wake. The intense heat and humidity of the false summer are gone. During this break in the action, we enjoy plenty of sleep and catch up on our letters home. Now we are starting to get bored. We want some action, fools that we are.
The six of us sprawl on chairs outside our barracks, like tourists at a health spa sunning ourselves – except that we wear flight suits instead of swimming trunks, in anticipation of the day’s assignments. The weather is superb, with a touch of fall color in the trees. It almost seems like old times, back before things got complicated with the world and with my comrades.
Our barracks is a small, rather shabby, affair, tucked off to the edge of the base near a patch of woods with a disused air raid shelter. We are off the beaten track, sort of an afterthought to the main life of the base. A telephone keeps us in touch with HQ, but the cheap aluminum wire transmits a barely audible signal. More often than not we receive our orders in person.
The mail has been held up for quite a while, but now a mass of it comes pouring into our laps. We all receive letters, except for Bel. This is typical; he never got mail at school, either. He pretends not to care, but I’ve often seen him glancing over people’s shoulders, trying to read their letters on the sly.
Right now he’s reading an official National Salvation Party text on racial theory. The bold Party banner on the cover advertises this plainly.
“I wish something would happen, already,” Bel grumbles into his open book.
“Like what?” Katella says, looking up from his letter. “A visit from Santa Claus, maybe?”
His voice carries an edge, as if he’s trying to goad Beltran. This is not very wise. Bel doesn’t take the bait, however.
“Sure,” he says. “If he’s got an interesting mission for me, I’ll take it.”
“How about a one-way flight home?” Sipren says.
“In a box?” Grushon says.
We all laugh. Now that we are ‘battle hardened veterans’ we have a right to enjoy such dark humor. Beltran is not amused, however, and sticks his head back into his book. Katella begins to say something else, but I wave him off. Bel is in one of his moods, so best leave him alone.
Beltran is often in a moody state. He is a white crow among us, out of sync. Whatever amuses us seems to irritate him. He projects the attitude that those around him simply don’t ‘get it,’ whatever ‘it’ is.
He’s always been like this to an extent, but since we’ve been at the front, this characteristic has gotten worse. I think I know why – the loss of the Sparta flight has hit him very hard, forcing him deeper into the lonely regions within himself. But he never mentions his lost command; that is not his way.
And he seems to have no humor at all, which deprives him of an important safety valve. Once, when we were joking about the things that attracted us to aviation, Bel threw cold water on the fun. Orpad, the shortest one among us, said that flying made him feel taller. Katella said that it took his mind off his crabby girlfriend back home.
When it was Bel’s turn, he simply stated: “Flying distinguishes me from the common people.”
I turn back to my letter from Bekar. Like the man, it is bright and optimistic. He is out of his cast now, he writes, and is “limping around with authority.” Ground school instruction is going well, and he is trying to arrange some flight tests to see if he can handle a fighter plane. Further details to follow.
Then the letter from Gyn. It is sweet, flowing with concern, and with lots of meaning just below the surface. From a girl who “doesn’t want to fall in love,” but is. My heart aches for her gentle presence. If only I could look over and see her in the chair beside me, instead of Bel with his nose buried in that goddam book!
My letter back to her will be equally circumspect. It will nibble around the edges of giant issues that cannot possibly be addressed under these circumstances. When will I be able to see her again, hold her in my arms, feel her warm lips on mine? I place her letter back into its envelope with a sigh loud enough to draw notice from my comrades.
“A real heart breaker, eh?” Katella says.
I shoot him a ‘mind your own business’ look. Katella holds up the letter he’s reading.
“My girl is trying to bust my nuts, as usual,” he says.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Bel mutters.
I open my next letter ... love from Mama. She mentions the walnut cake she’d sent, made from quality black market ingredients. It arrived earlier and has already been wolfed down by the Raptor Aces.
Finally, the letter from Ket. I wanted to open this one first, but forced myself to wait. As I read my other mail, the unopened cream envelope rests on my lap temp
ting me with its bold, backhand script. It radiates a curious warmth. Ket’s fingers have caressed this envelope intimately, as they’d caressed me during that one, incredible evening.
Well, maybe not ‘caressed,’ exactly – more like ‘seized.’ After a final bit of hesitation, I open the letter. Like Ket, it is blunt and to the point:
Dearest Dytran,
I trust that all is well with you – I can’t bear to think otherwise. Am traveling a great deal on assignment these days and haven’t been home much. I hope you’ve written to me. I look forward to reading your letters when I get back.
The prize is waiting for you, Dytran. Come claim it whenever you’re ready.
Bye for now.
XXX! Ket
p.s. I think you know what the prize is. Do I need to spell it out?
No need to spell it out, Ket. Your meaning is very clear, even to a thick-skulled male like myself. Hot arousal collides with the most intense frustration imaginable.
“What’s the matter, Dye?” Katella says. “You look like somebody slugged you in the gut.”
I look up into a row of grinning faces. On my other side, Beltran is peering over my shoulder.
“Do you guys mind?” I say, stuffing the letter back into its envelope.
“It’s that News Service girl, isn’t it?” Sipren says. “God, what I wouldn’t give to hear from her!”
The others laugh; my face begins to redden. Fortunately, a courier arrives just then and rescues me from the awkward situation. We all glance up from our chairs at the dapper figure with his cap tilted at a angle and a briefcase chained to his wrist.
“I’ve got a priority run,” the courier says. “They told me to find a pilot.”
I pull my shred of rank.
“I’ll take you,” I say. “Hold on a minute.”
I step inside the barracks and place my mail in the drawer of my side table. Then I reconsider. Violating the personal storage space of a comrade is the ultimate taboo, but the temptation of the cream-colored envelope might prove too much for that pack of hyenas out there. So, I slip Ket’s letter into one of my flight suit’s exterior pockets – the one closest to my heart – and zip it securely in place.
***
We are using the ‘big boy’ paved runway instead of our usual grass strip which still has large mud puddles on it. Just before we climb into Y-47, the courier holds up the attaché case chained to his wrist. His other hand rests on a small automatic pistol holstered to his belt.
“You know how this works, don’t you?” he says.
He takes his hand off the gun butt long enough to point at a cord running out of the case.
“Yes,” I say, “we’ve all been briefed.”
If, for some reason, the courier cannot deliver his message, he is to pull the cord and set off an incendiary device. This bit of fireworks will destroy whatever papers are inside the case. Should he be unable to do this, I am to pull the cord so as to prevent the contents from falling into enemy hands.
“It’s just a formality,” the courier says. “I’ve gone seven months without a mishap. When I’m along, you’re safe as spades.”
I flinch.
“Safe as spades” was one of Stilikan’s pet expressions. I’ve never heard anyone else use it. Where did this guy pick it up?
“Uh, did you know ... by any chance ...” I say.
“Yes?” the courier says.
“Oh, never mind,” I say. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I jump into the front cockpit. Somehow, mentioning Stilikan’s name at this moment seems to be bad luck. I don’t know why. We are all developing morbid superstitions.
Just concentrate on the task, I tell myself. Get that damned message delivered.
***
It feels good to be back in the air, and on a ‘milk run,’ too. No pile of hand grenades lurking in the rear cockpit ready to explode, no white-knuckle take off and landing. Just smooth flying through bright skies. Even the approach of ZOD does not dampen my spirits overmuch.
These courier runs are taking up a lot of our schedule lately. With the enemy breaking our radio codes as fast as we can change them and the partisans cutting our land lines, we are increasingly forced into such hand-delivered communications. This suits everyone fine, except for Beltran.
He yearns for the days when artillery roars so that he can fly as a spotter. He’ll dodge in and out of the ground fire pinpointing enemy positions, calling in the coordinates for our own guns. These artillery duels seldom last long, but Beltran is pumped up for days afterwards by a brief period of spotter duty.
“When are they going to let us have fighters?” he grumbles constantly. “I’m tired of these flying sewing machines!”
A voice crackles over the intercom. “They’re at it again down there,” the courier says.
Yes, I can see the discharge of big guns off to starboard. I can sense their thunder behind the roar of my engine. Maybe Bel will get his wish today.
I review my selection of emergency landing fields, just in case we have to vacate the sky in a hurry. We carry no parachutes – too much bulk and weight; besides, we generally fly too low for them to be of much use.
And parachutes are fair game for both sides these days. Anyone dangling beneath one is a sitting duck. Stilikan’s chivalrous attitude toward his rival airmen is laughably outdated in the current ‘war of extermination.’
“Impressive view up here,” the courier observes.
“Right.”
We are flying parallel to ZOD now. One could call it impressive, though I can think of other, more accurate, terms – strange, creepy, evil.
Neither of us sees the enemy fighter plane diving out of the sun, like a hawk onto a pigeon. A torrent of bullets slams into us.
Y-47 bucks and jerks like a wild stallion. I nearly lose control. An ear-splitting howl explodes through the intercom, then dies. The enemy fighter screams past, so close that I can feel the heat of its engine. Up ahead, it begins turning around to make another run at us.
I am numbed with shock, as if a huge chasm has split open, exposing the inner workings of hell to the bright day – a moment as terrible as when Beltran crashed his plane over the slobe boy.
Maybe that prior experience has steeled me for this one. Snapping out of my paralysis, I push the stick over hard and slam the throttle to the firewall. We head toward the earth in a power dive.
Down, down, escape into low altitude!
Smoke pours from the engine, nearly blinding me, and the controls feel dead. A large hole blown through the port wing gapes at me.
The fighter is behind me now, firing his guns. I jink my plane to make myself a more difficult target. Then the ground rushes up, I am flying along it, power off. Bullets tear up the dirt around me.
I am moving through a narrow channel between two swathes of forest. I am bleeding off speed, lowering, lowering ... then a touchdown that is almost absurd in its precision. Y-47 bumps along the surface, finally crashing against a tree stump and ground looping to a halt.
I fling off my harness and tumble out of the cockpit, grabbing my emergency pack along the way. I dash into the cover of the woods as if pursued by all the demons of hell.
The fighter plane circles above for a while, then departs for other pastures of death.
30. Lair of the Beast
The world becomes silent, except for the ringing in my ears and the distant rumble of big guns. I loiter in the forest trying to regain my grip on reality – whatever reality is anymore. By some miracle, I have suffered no major injuries.
Get away, now! my interior voice shouts.
But the secret message is still in the airplane and I must ensure its destruction. The courier himself is obviously slain; his body sprawls twisted and bloody in the rear cockpit. Against every survival instinct, I depart the forest cover and approach the wreck of my aircraft.
My beautiful Y-47!
She’s all twisted and bent now, her prop bro
ken, wings shredded by gunfire, and blood running down her fuselage. At least it is a fighting death and not some ignominious training accident. I come to attention and offer a salute to the plane and to the courier whose luck has finally run out.
He is, literally, shot to pieces. When I reach into the rear cockpit for the briefcase, his hand comes out with it, dangling from the chain like an obscene good luck charm.
“Ugh!”
I fling the case away and vomit my guts out onto the poor, violated flanks of Y-47. I collapse to my knees. The world spins and starts to fade, then comes slowly back into focus.
A single thought keeps me from fainting – Partisans!
I am alone down here, cut off. Any partisan unit in the area would have seen my crash landing. Or else that fighter pilot could have radioed them. The partisans work hand in glove with the regular forces.
“It looks like one of the bastards escaped,” the pilot would say. “Go finish him off, guys.”
I wobble back onto my feet and force myself to confront the horror in the rear cockpit again. The stench of gore and explosive nearly forces me into a swoon.
Get a grip, Dytran!
I work the pistol out of the courier’s gun belt. The thing is slick with blood. I grope around the belt and pat down the pockets, no indication of more ammo. I wipe my prize as clean as possible on the grass.
I pop out the ammo clip. There are six bullets within, five for any partisans that might show up, and the last one for me. I will not repeat Stilikan’s mistake – assuming that others are as honorable as myself. They won’t tie me to some tree, not alive anyway.
I recover the briefcase. Thank God the courier’s hand no longer dangles from the chain. I do not wish to find out where it has tumbled. The case itself has taken a round near the top which has shattered its locking device. The demolition cord protrudes from the bottom.
What should I do?
Is the incendiary charge still intact – and if so, how powerful is it? Will it set off a blaze that will draw attention to my position? The explosion can no longer be contained by the damaged briefcase. If I pull that cord, I might just set myself on fire.
I pry the case open and withdraw a medium-sized manila envelope stamped in red with: