Nadya's War

by C. S. Taylor

  Closer, some five hundred meters away, both Kareliya and Martyona fended off the Luftwaffe, but it was clear they were fighting a losing battle. The Messerschmitt pilots were taking turns making diving attacks, forcing my sisters-in-battle to burn altitude and speed to dodge the German’s sights.

  “Two thirds left,” I mumbled, checking the fuel gauge mounted on the wing. That was more than enough to get me to Kamyshin where there was an auxiliary airfield we’d planned to refuel at on the way home. It was tempting to make a run for safety, but I didn’t want to see a girl who abandoned her sisters every time I looked in the mirror, and that wasn’t even considering what others would think of me.

  I pulled on the stick and climbed, pushing past three thousand meters. With a gentle roll I brought my plane to bear on the dogfight. Martyona and Kareliya had sacrificed a lot in altitude and were making tight turns and staying together to keep each other clear. They didn’t have much more height to burn, and once they were skimming the treetops, they’d be easy pickings. But if I got there in time, the three of us had a decent chance to all go home, maybe even send the Germans running if we flew well enough.

  Two 109s from up high began another diving attack. I was too far away to stop it, and all I could do was scream. “Two more coming! Break! Break! Break!”

  “Nadya, I told you to return to base!” Martyona shot back at me. “Do as you’re ordered!”

  I didn’t.

  I pushed the throttle as far as it would go. At that setting, the engine guzzled fuel and would be running on fumes in short order. I took aim at one of the 109s that had just started its dive, and even though I was about four hundred meters away, I opened fire with both cowl-mounted machine guns.

  Orange tracers streaked through the air. They didn’t come close to hitting their target, but since they flew in front of the German, they produced the desired effect. The 109 pulled out of its dive and rolled away to avoid my fire. I followed the enemy fighter up into a shallow and banking climb, spraying bullets once more. Most missed, but I managed to pepper the German’s tail. Tiny pieces of fuselage broke off, and in my excitement, I pushed the trigger to my cannon.

  The 20mm ShVAK cannon sprang to life, belching flame and large shells that could punch through an engine block or explode a fuel tank with a single hit. My plane shuddered from the recoil as I held down the button, hoping for a kill. The shots failed to connect. Worse, I was about to overshoot my target and thus put myself directly into his crosshairs.

  I pulled up and rolled my plane to keep my speed high, and then pulled the nose of my aircraft back down to meet him. Within a split second, my enemy realized what had happened and began rolling and pulling his nose into my maneuver. Over and over we went, like a pair snakes wrapping around each other in a corkscrew fashion, each trying to get the other to overshoot, each trying to score the kill. With every roll we made, our planes grew closer.

  In a span of a few heartbeats, I could see every marking on the pilot’s plane, from the red letter “U” with a set of wings on one side and inscribed in a shield that labeled the pilot as being part of the Jagdgeschwader Udet unit, to the bright yellow eight painted over the rear of the fuselage, to the white tallies on the tail. My breath left me when I saw those. There had to be twenty victory markers painted on the right side alone. Each one represented a plane he had shot down. I hadn’t picked a fight with a fresh, scared pilot like myself. I’d picked one with a proven ace at least four times over.

  Our planes continued to jockey for position. My rolls became slower and slower. The muscles in my arms and shoulders strained more and more. Each pass we made gave him an edge and me notice my life was now measured in seconds. I realized it wasn’t only my inexperience that was about to get me killed. The damage to my right wing had given my enemy more than enough advantage for him to exploit, too. My plane wouldn’t respond as fast as his no matter how skilled I was.

  “Damn it, Nadya,” Martyona said over the radio. “Why didn’t you leave when you were told?”

  I swallowed hard as the German ace and I rolled by once again. I could see his sharp, unshaven face this time as our canopies nearly brushed by. I could see the shark-like grin he wore. We both knew what was about to happen. “I’m a stubborn boar,” I said. The calmness in my voice surprised me. At least I’d die a heroic death.

  On the next roll, I overshot my enemy. I continued until I was upside down and then yanked on my stick for all I was worth. Pain erupted in my arms and back, and I was convinced the sinews were pulling themselves apart. The G’s slammed me in my seat, and I held the tight maneuver as long as I could.

  My vision darkened. Yells, orders, chatter on the radio faded to nothing. Exhausted, I let go of the controls. My plane leveled. My senses returned.

  “Nadya break!”

  Before I could react, my plane exploded.

  Chapter Two

  Fire ripped through the cockpit like it was made of flash paper. Flames licked my leather jacket and pants, and found my hands and neck with glee. Thick black smoke poured from my engine, blinding me to everything. I choked on the billowing clouds, and even protected by my goggles, my eyes watered. Worst of all, the smell of scorched metal and burning fuel filled my nostrils.

  My ears took in the shrieks of a woman desperate not to die. Momentum slammed me into the side of the cockpit as the plane spun out of control. I fought with my canopy and managed to get it open. The instant it slid back, I unfastened my lap belt and was thrown clear of the fire-trailing wreck.

  My training kicked in the moment I kissed fresh air. I arched my body for all it was worth, and my fall stabilized to a belly-to-earth position. I pulled the ripcord to my parachute, and when my silk savior blossomed round, I was sitting in the harness less than three hundred meters above the earth. God that was close. A few seconds’ hesitation and I would’ve made a quaint crater.

  Descending, I knew I wasn’t out of the woods yet. There were still plenty of ways to die before I reached friendly lines. I ignored the pain in my hands and neck as best I could and got my bearings. A large plume of smoke rose from the ground a little over a half a kilometer away, and I could see burning debris scattered around it. Above and to my right, a Yak-1 fought against a pair of 109s. Both groups exchanged tracers, but only the Yak streamed white coolant against the orange evening sky.

  The chatter of machine guns came from behind. I twisted in my harness and saw another 109 with a Yak firmly latched on its tail taking shots as they both weaved left and right. The two planes flew by, and in that split second, I identified them both. Martyona was hot on the German ace’s tail. My wing leader’s aerial acrobatics rivaled any seraphim’s, and I was thrilled to have front row seats for when she knocked him out of the sky. His plane was already leaking fluids.

  The German climbed and rolled, and Martyona easily followed, but as she chased him into another tight corner, she suddenly overshot. My heart stopped as a burst of cannon fire spewed from the Messer’s nose. Chunks flew from the tail and left wing of Martyona’s plane. Her fighter tumbled, and before she could recover, the German fired yet again and sheared off her wing.

  “No. No. No. Please, God, save her,” I said, trying to fool myself into thinking if I prayed hard enough, I could stop her plane from spiraling in the ground. I felt small and helpless, as if a cruel Universe knew my every fear and brought them to life for its own amusement.

  Martyona’s plane smashed into the steppes below. The brilliant explosion of yellows and oranges was mesmerizing. Even from where I hung in the sky I could feel the heat from the blast. The sudden change in air pressure also put a thump in my chest and a ringing in my ears.

  The Messer circled around me, and I could see the pilot inspecting his kill. An ear-shattering bang came from his plane. Black clouds billowed from the nose of his craft and his prop stopped. As he leveled his plane, I hoped he’d lose control and crash, but I ended up cursing when I saw him bail and his chute open wide. I then prayed he’d break his
neck on landing.

  I slammed to the ground, the impact jarring my thoughts back to Martyona. I unbuckled my harness and let the rig fall from my back. Smoke rose from where my wing leader had crashed, and I stumbled toward it as fast as I could. Time was not on my side. My world view narrowed, and all of existence shrank down to me and her.

  “Martyona! I’m coming!” I said. Somehow, she’d survived. I was a Cossack, a devout daughter of the Living God. He would hear my prayers. He had to.

  My right ankle warmed, and within a dozen steps, I noticed I wasn’t putting as much weight on it as I should. The rocky terrain added to the difficulty, but that didn’t matter. I had to get to her and pull her from the plane before she burned to death, and then together we’d have to reach the other side of the Don before the Germans came. Surely they saw my parachute and were on their way to capture us both. Or at the very least, help their pilot return to his airfield.

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the river. It was a kilometer or two away, which meant judging from the smoke rise, Martyona’s crash was at least three kilometers from the water. I worried I wouldn’t be able to drag her that far if she were wounded, but I told myself I could find a way to bring her across the river and all the way back to Anisovka if I had enough faith in myself.

  A throbbing built in my foot, as if it might burst from my boot. When I crested a small rise, breathless and teary eyed, I looked down upon the wreck. Her plane was as scattered as my hopes were for her survival. The wings, tail, and part of the rear were gone—but the main body remained. My eyes widened. A fool’s optimism sprang to life. Not only did the fuselage remain, but it looked like the cockpit was still intact.

  “I’m here! I’m here!” I shouted, limping forward. I grunted and let the pain in my leg redouble my efforts. When I got to what was left of her Yak-1, I climbed it as best I could to get to the cockpit. Portions of hot metal seared my hands, but I didn’t care, especially when I realized the cockpit hadn’t been spared at all.

  “God, no,” I whispered. What I had thought was the entire fuselage was half of it turned on its side with a portion of the canopy still attached. Bits of controls, seat, pedals, and twisted metal were strewn around. I saw Martyona’s body a few meters away, charred and torn in two, and fell off the plane. I vomited until my stomach had nothing left.

  A gunshot cracked through the air, and dirt kicked up a few meters away. I scrambled forward, taking cover behind the remains of the fuselage. Drawing my Mosin Nagant revolver from its holster, I dared a peek.

  The waning evening light made details difficult to see, but a German leaned around a small tree a few dozen meters away with a 9mm Luger in hand. By his light jacket, trousers, and boots—not to mention lack of rifle or submachine gun—I assumed he was the German ace I’d been fighting.

  He rattled something off in German. I hadn’t a clue what he said, but figured my response was universal enough. I answered him with a gunshot. I hoped it would take off his head, but all it did was dig a little hole in the ground some forty meters behind him.

  The man ducked behind the tree. He laughed and called out to me. “Apologies. I forgot you probably don’t speak German. So quick to shoot. Good for me your aim is as bad down here as it is up there.”

  He mangled his Russian and his accent was still as German as ever, but I could understand him. “Funny. You missed me, too.” I replied.

  “A woman?” I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the shock in his voice. “This world is full of surprises. But I missed on purpose.”

  I snorted. “Why? Wanting to court me?”

  The man laughed again. “No, but I dare say you’d be interesting if we did. I wanted you to drop your weapon so we could properly talk.”

  “I won’t let you capture me,” I said, checking my revolver. I had six shots left, which meant I had five to fight with. The last one was reserved for me. I prayed it wouldn’t come down to that.

  “I guessed as much since neither one of our sides treats prisoners well,” he said. “But I’ve never met any of my opponents. I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

  A stabbing pain built in my hands and arms, and it dawned on me that the adrenaline that had kept my mind off my injuries must be fading. I turned my head when I heard the engine of an approaching vehicle, and I knew I had to get out of there. I kept my weapon aimed at the tree, and retreated toward the Don. I saw the German peek at me once, but he said nothing else and he didn’t try and stop me. Why, I hadn’t a clue, but I was grateful to God for whatever protections He saw fit to bless me with.

  My ankle protested each step I took as I hobbled. I heard Martyona’s voice urging me on, one step at a time, and from it I took a cautious optimism I’d make it home. Up until that point, I’d always known life could be harsh, but never appreciated it would be harsh to me. My dreams as a little girl were always adventures filled with magic and travel, never terrifying. Nightmares happened to other people, yet there I was, part of the others. I told myself this wasn’t the end, and I’d pass this story down to my children’s children’s children, to inspire them to never give up, to always believe in themselves. I’d like to think that’s what gave me strength to carry on.

  I also thought of my father, of his father, of my entire lineage of warriors who had fought and suffered throughout history. I told myself they had had it worse than I did and still pressed on. How could I allow myself to succumb to a few burns and a twisted ankle? And if that wasn’t enough, I thought about what the Germans would do to me. I’d be lucky if they’d shoot me on the spot. There would be rape, torture.

  Worse, if the Soviets liberated me, German treatment paled in comparison to what the NKVD would do. They would test me to be sure I wasn’t a fascist sympathizer. I, like everyone else, was well aware of Stalin’s Order 270 given last year. In it he’d said, “There are no Soviet prisoners of war, only traitors.”

  Vehicle sounds grew, and with them I heard the all-too-familiar squeaky noise of moving tank treads. At the top of the hill, I thought I could make out the outline of a German armored vehicle. It was hard to see now that the sun was gone and only a sliver of moon hung in the night sky, but with a full Panzer division in the area, there wasn’t a lot of guess work to what it was.

  I hobbled toward the Don, praying the darkness would cover my movements. I surprised myself at how fast I could go, injuries and all. Without warning, the ground gave way under my feet, and I toppled headlong down a steep incline. I twisted and bounced down the slope, crying out several times along the way. When I slid to a stop, fire ran through my hands, and I could barely move my right leg. I half thought it would feel better if I chopped it off.

  “Hier! Schnell! Schnell!”

  I bolted upright. The shouts couldn’t have been more than fifty meters away, near the top of the embankment I fell from. God, how had they tracked me in such darkness? Had the German ace been following me, leading them? Or was I cursed and happened to tumble near a German patrol?

  It didn’t matter, and I didn’t have the time to think it over. I pressed north in the darkness, heart pounding in my ears. Branches snapped and tore at my skin. Leaves crunched. German orders came faster, closer.

  The foliage opened up, and I found myself at the edge of the Don. Sadly, I could only make out the first few meters of water from the shore. Darkness swallowed the rest. I had no idea whether or not it was a hundred meters across or five. I’d grown up in Tula and became a strong swimmer thanks to the Upa River, but my usual confidence at being in the water faltered as I worried my leg would betray me halfway across the Don and send me to a watery grave.

  “Hier! Hier!”

  It seemed as if they were shouting in my ear. I limped into the cool water and swam. The current pushed me and stung my hands, arms, and neck. My right foot became dead and useless to kick with. Water filled my leather jacket, dragging me down. I knew I couldn’t swim much longer with it on, so I took a deep breath, let myself go under, and pulled the jacket of
f.

  The jacket slipped from my arms with little effort, but returning to the surface was harder than I anticipated. My water-logged boots, like the jacket, gave me trouble. My left boot came off after a brief struggle with the laces. The right was nearly impossible to remove due to the agony racing up my leg every time I moved it. It took three submerged attempts to pull it off. When I finally succeeded, I shot to the surface like a champagne cork free from its bottle.

  “Thank God,” I said, feeling hopeful despite my injuries and predicament. “If you can get to the other side, Nadya, you’ll be safe.”

  I found my spirit bolstered when I talked to myself. It was as if I weren’t alone and someone with me knew things would be okay if I mustered the tenacity to carry on. I managed to pull myself across the Don with nothing to guide me but the stars above. I didn’t know how far the current had pulled me once I reached the north bank, but I couldn’t have cared less. I was out of the water and exhausted.

  With my last bit of strength, I limped up the bank and into a tree line before collapsing on the ground. At least now when morning came, I told myself, the Germans wouldn’t be able to see me from the other side. As vulnerable as I was, I cracked a smile as I thought about how frustrated the fascists must be to have been right on top of me only to lose my trail at the last second.

  I lay for what must have been hours, too tired to move, too pained to sleep. I wondered what Klara was doing, thinking. She had to know by now her plane and her pilot were missing. She’d be worried—no, scared—for me I’m sure, and I wondered how much she’d hug me when I got back. I wondered how hard I’d hug her in return.

  When I finally passed out to the distant thundering of artillery, I dreamed of scalpels filleting my hands and vices crushing my feet. At the edge of those nightmares, I was vaguely aware of voices closing in and looking for a downed pilot.

  * * *

  I woke and squinted at the mid-morning sun. I raised my hand to shield my eyes. That moment was the first time I could clearly see my injuries. The skin had peeled from my hands. Blisters raised across my swollen and red palms. Each hand had a small patch of skin that was charred and leathery as if they’d found the hot end of a blow torch and played a game of catch the flame. As ugly as they were, I hoped that in ten years the scars that would form would tell a story of courage and perseverance. But given the horrific agony racing through those wounds, I had half a mind to find a way to make a clean chop at the wrists. That had to be less painful that what I was currently enduring.