by C. S. Taylor
Every day for two solid weeks I argued with Tamara to reinstate my flight status. She kept insisting I had to heal before she would give me further consideration, and I kept hammering the topic, saying I was ready. The first few times I ended up with cleanup duties in the kitchen for insubordination, but after that, I respected her warnings—sometimes merely a set jaw or dip of the head—and dropped the matter until the next day.
When I wasn’t scrubbing pots or hauling trash from the mess hall, Tamara had me working with her from sunrise to well after sunset, pushing papers, taking inventory, and scheduling flights, repairs, and resupplies. She had a large map of the war’s southwestern front stuck with pushpins on the wall of her office. Each day those pushpins would move as reports came in, and each day I saw the Germans advance toward Stalingrad. Nothing seemed to slow them down, and a last stand at the city seemed inevitable. At least when they reached the city, Tamara would need every pilot for its defense. She’d have to put me back in the air, and then it would only be a matter of time before I’d cross paths with Martyona’s killer.
Each day I’d also comb over the reports, desperate to find any sort of intel on who that man was. To my dismay, nothing came up, not even when I sent telegraphs to other regiments trying to track him down. It was as if he’d vanished from the war, a ghost never to be seen again. I began to wonder if I’d seen his number wrong and that’s why no one knew who he was. Was it really an eight on his tail? Maybe I’d gotten the color wrong, too.
On the fourth of September, I was walking back from the airfield with dozens of papers from the morning fighter inspection stuck to a clipboard. My steps were brisk, and the pain in my hands and arms had dwindled to a manageable throb in the background.
I sang The Birch Tree as I went. The traditional song had been stuck in my head the past few days, and it reminded me of how beautiful Father’s voice was when he’d sing it. Also, I enjoyed the range of tempo and emotion in the piece, and the lyrics were something I could identify with. The birch had lost its leaves and lost who it was. Exactly how I had. Despite connecting with such words, deep down, I felt flight was more of a possibility than ever before. Maybe that’s why I sang it. I wasn’t afraid I’d lose my wings forever.
I entered the command post and found Tamara sitting behind her cluttered desk of daily paperwork and a week’s worth of plans on top. To her side stood my squadron commander, Evgeniia Prokhorova—Zhenia for short. Her posture was perfect, and though her brown field shirt hung well on her athletic build and the male breeches she wore looked tailored to her body, Zhenia’s large chin and short, fat neck gave her a comical appearance—something she herself would poke fun at from time to time.
Zhenia was loved by all the girls, myself included. She trained all of us in the air as much as she could, and when we weren’t flying, she always gave instruction on the ground, even if it was only a tidbit during a quick passing. Most important, since I’d returned from my ill-fated mission, she’d helped boost my hope I’d fly again.
Given the confrontational look on both their faces, I sensed I’d interrupted something important. “Should I come back?”
“No, there’s work to be done,” Tamara said.
I went to my little space of mundaneness without word, a small desk in the corner, and hoped the two would continue whatever it was they were doing before I entered.
“Do you have anything you’d like to add, Zhenia?” Tamara said. At this point I faced away from them and didn’t dare look over my shoulder, but by the Major’s annoyed tone, I could imagine the sour look on her face.
“Only to remind you this escort you need is short one pilot,” Zhenia replied. She spoke in a cultured voice, but her R’s never came out right. “Olga is still ill from last night, and I’d like it noted I’ve brought this to your attention.”
“So it shall,” Tamara said. “We’re out of pilots today. You knew this coming in, and I want the matter dropped.”
Silence filled the room, settled on my shoulders like a heavy wet blanket. Inside I screamed my name over and over, hoping, praying either Tamara or Zhenia would see the willing—and desperate—girl in the corner, begging to fly.
“As you wish-” Zhenia started, but that’s all she got out.
I leapt to my feet, heart pounding in my chest and sending paperwork flying off my desk. “I’ll go.”
Again, the two stared at me. Tamara looked shocked due to my sudden interruption that might have bordered on insubordination. She had, after all, told Zhenia to drop the subject. I told myself I wasn’t included in that order, so I should be okay. Zhenia on the other hand, with her back turned to Tamara, grinned and gave a wink.
“She’ll do, Major,” she said, facing Tamara once more. “She could use a simple flight after being grounded so long.”
“I can do simple!” I said, bounding forward.
Tamara grunted. She made tight fists and placed them behind her back. “You think you’re ready?”
“I’ll be fine. See?” I hopped back and forth on one leg a few times, showing off the strength I’d regained in my ankle. It warmed under the strain, but I kept a smiling face. I had to be strong. I had to seize this opportunity, an opportunity that could only have been divinely orchestrated. Olga’s sudden illness was proof enough for me.
Tamara remained skeptical. “And your hands?”
I held them up and flexed my fingers several times. Lighting shot through my forearms as I did, but I’d been expecting it and hid it well under a guise of excitement and confidence. “Couldn’t be better.”
Tamara walked over and outstretched an open hand. “Let me see.”
I placed the back of my right hand in her palm. My skin warmed under my collar, and I did my best to keep an even breath as she gently inspected the wounds.
“They do look healed,” she said.
“They are. I promise.”
“Communications are hinting that tomorrow is a big day,” she said, leaning over my wounds and tracing them with a sharp fingernail. “We might be called to help keep the skies clear of Luftwaffe over the front. Do you think you’re fit to assist?”
“Absolutely.”
Tamara clamped down on my hands and drove her thumbs into the scar tissue. Unprepared for the attack, I screamed in pain and doubled over. She let go a second later. “She’s not ready.”
With tears in my eyes, I stood back up and gasped for breath. “That wasn’t fair!”
Tamara’s cold stare cut through me. “Neither is combat.”
Zhenia put her hands in mine. “Grip them.” When I hesitated, she said it again with a growl. When I complied, she added, “Tightly.”
I set my jaw and summoned all of my strength and squeezed. I squeezed until I thought the bones in both of our hands would break. Fire ran through my arms, but I did not yell. I did not cry. I fought the pain with anger. Anger at my one shot at returning to the air being stolen from me.
“Now pull,” Zhenia ordered.
I pulled against her hands so hard I yanked her forward a few steps. I let go, confident the point had been made. Beaming, I looked at them both.
Zhenia shook out her hands in the air. “She’s got an iron grip. She can fly.”
“No, she can’t. She’s still in pain.”
“As squadron commander, I have the right to pick my pilots for a flight. She will be my responsibility.”
“Absolutely not, Lieutenant,” Tamara said with bite. “She is my responsibility. Her plane is my responsibility, and the success of your escort is my responsibility. I’ll not risk multiple lives and multiple fighters because she’s overeager.”
“But you’ll risk multiple lives and multiple fighters sending us on an escort short one plane. One plane can turn the tide of a dogfight, if it comes to that. Hell, an extra plane can stop a dogfight from even happening if the fascists don’t like the odds. Do you want to explain to Marina why you lost a VIP when you didn’t send the proper number of fighters?”
Tam
ara crossed her arms over her chest. Her jaw was set like a vice. I held my breath, waiting for her reply. She was considering it. She had to be. What else would she be thinking about? I bit the inside of my lip, not knowing if I should say something or if I would be better served to keep quiet.
“Fine,” she said. “You’ll have another pilot.”
“Thank you!” I said, shouting with glee. Tamara held up a hand, and though I quieted, I couldn’t stand still. I was too giddy.
“Not you,” she said.
My heart skipped a beat. “What?”
Zhenia’s face scrunched. “If not Nadya, who?”
“Take Klara,” Tamara said. “I think she’s due for her first combat sortie.”
“What? You’re taking a mechanic over me?” I said. My face flushed. My muscles tightened in my shoulders and back. Fire raced through my arms. “She can’t even fly!”
“She’s got almost three hundred hours flying in an air club before the war,” Zhenia said with a downcast face.
“And you’ve been training her for three weeks,” Tamara added. “You said yourself you thought she’d make an excellent pilot one day. If Nadya doesn’t heal, I’ll need a replacement.”
“You can’t do this to me!” I said. My body trembled. Tears ran down my cheeks. A large part of me wanted to throttle Tamara where she stood. The other half wanted to grab the wooden chair behind me and smash it over her head. My rage built ever more as she looked at me without the hint of compassion. “You can’t ground me forever! I fought with Martyona! I swore to avenge her!”
“Nadya, this isn’t up for debate,” Tamara said, glaring. “You will recompose yourself this instant or you’ll rot in the box for two days. Choose your next words carefully.”
“You might as well send me to the grave if you’re clipping my wings!”
“Have it your way. That’s two. Want to make it two more?”
“Make it a goddamn week for all I care!”
And so she did.
Chapter Six
The guard jabbed the barrel of his PPSh-41 submachine gun into the small of my back. I stumbled into a tiny room with a curse under my breath. He’d hit me in the same spot for three days straight now, and the bruised area was tender to the touch. Though we were an all-female regiment, there were a few boys that had been stationed at the airfield since the start, and more had trickled in over the last few days, helping with construction and logistics. Rumors had it even more boys were coming. If they were all as gentlemanly as this one was, I had a suspicion I’d turn my own wings in just to be free of their company.
My prison was a small wooden shack with a dirt floor and no windows save for the tiny one in the door. A single beam ran underneath the pitched ceiling from which a rusted lantern hung—a leftover from when the structure had been a storage shed. The air smelled of mold and sweat, the latter coming from myself. My only regular visitors were the guards, whoever brought me food and water, and a handful of mice that scurried in through a hole near the corner and would serenade me with squeaks from time to time.
Twice a day I was allowed to use the latrine and receive my meager rations and water, once in the morning and once in the evening. The rest of the time I was forced to quietly stand. I’d run combat scenarios in my head until ten o’clock at night, at which point I was permitted to lie down and sleep, giving much relief to my aching legs.
I felt the punishment was tough, but fair. I did mouth off to my commanding officer. I had no one to blame but myself. It could’ve been much worse. I could’ve been sent to the labor camps, stripped of rank and honor, and I was thankful I hadn’t. Still, I was irritated Tamara hadn’t put me on escort with Zhenia and wondered when my mouth would land me back in here.
Occasionally my thoughts turned to Martyona and why the world was cruel and unfair. She had done everything right, yet I was the one who survived. I wondered if it would be worse that no god existed or one did who allowed evil to not only exist, but thrive. A god who let horrid things happen was confusing at best, and truth be told, I wasn’t sure which of the two possibilities I would’ve preferred. I never came up with an answer. The best I could hope for was she’d gone home, her eternal one, and one day I’d see her again.
I wasn’t always so gloomy when thinking about that terrible flight. Several times I managed to think about it objectively, trying to learn as much as I could, and I came away with two things. First, the unseen enemy was the deadliest. I had known that in theory before, but the German who’d killed Martyona had shown what it looked like in practice. Second, which played off the first, bait was both simple and lethal. I’d need to be mindful about taking it and skilled at offering it, especially where an ace was concerned.
Occasionally my mind focused on that nameless German ace as it tried to piece together who he was. He had to have been toying with me on the ground. What other explanation was there? I could see him now, reclined in a leather chair, cigar in one hand and brandy in the other, laughing with his fellow Luftwaffe pilots about how he’d knocked me out of the sky and then played God with me at the crash site. Maybe he felt shooting me in the back wasn’t sporting enough. Or maybe he simply wanted to score another aerial victory on me so he could paint another kill tally on his tail.
It was frustrating not having an answer.
On the third day of my incarceration, I heard the guard outside talking to another. “Can’t speak to her,” he said. “Leave it and go.”
The exact time eluded me, but I thought it was mid-morning, which meant breakfast had arrived. There was some muffled commotion, and then the guard chuckled. “Fine. One minute and you’re done.”
The door creaked open, and Klara walked in, holding a torn hunk of bread in one hand and a canteen in the other. Despite being parched and hungry, I scowled at her arrival. “Put it on the ground. I’ll eat later.”
“Look, I don’t have long,” she said after she wiped her mouth as if she’d tasted something repulsive. “But I have a couple of things you need to know.”
“Such as you replacing me as a pilot?” I tried to come across as if her actions hadn’t hurt me, but as I spoke those words, I could feel her knife in my back twist. My throat tightened, and a torrent of emotion pushed against my ruse like backwater on a failing dam. At that point, I stopped pretending. “How could you? I’m struggling enough to keep my sanity and you come along and steal my slot.”
“It’s not like that,” she said, handing me my breakfast. “I don’t want to stay on the ground, but I’m not after your slot. I swear it. I’d die before betraying you.”
I snorted. “No one else is grounded. Hard to think otherwise. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise for when we flew together for the first time.” Klara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If I were in your shoes, I’d think the same, maybe worse, but believe me when I say this. Changes are coming, and no one is supposed to know.”
“Sure. No one knows but you.”
“A few days ago the 24th and 66th Armies attacked the XIV Panzer Corps. Brass hats are trying to cover up the disaster, but word got out and the Germans are at the southern end of Stalingrad,” she said. “Everyone is afraid the city is going to fall, no matter how much they say otherwise. If it does, there’s no stopping the Germans. Kazarinova is transferring over a half dozen pilots to help with the defense.”
I chewed on her words, unsure how to take the news. Had she been training with Zhenia in the hopes of moving to a new regiment or to take the place of someone leaving? Or had she been trying for my spot all along and this news was a convenient cover story?
“Twenty seconds or I’m locking you in,” the guard called out.
Klara’s face turned worried. “There’s more. There’s a commissar named Petrov with Kazarinova right now. He’s asking about you and not in a good way.”
My gut tightened. “How?”
“He thinks you left Martyona to die. Please tell me you didn’t.”
“You know me, Klara. Of course not.”
She blew out a puff of air, but her body was still tense. “I believe you, but he sounded so sure—said you were a spy for the Germans and that I shouldn’t talk to you at all. He said you didn’t kill one of their pilots when you had the chance.”
“He’s on a witch hunt. Nothing more.” While part of me wanted to shoot the man, most of me wanted to cry. Not because Petrov was hot on my heels, but because Klara was taking a risk in telling me what he was up to. I had no doubt he’d label her as a traitor too if he caught wind that she’d tipped me off to his investigation. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” I said, hugging her. “You’re nothing but a true friend.”
She snuggled into the embrace with a sigh. “Thanks.”
“Hey! I said you could talk! Nothing else,” the guard shouted. “Now get out.”
“Be strong,” Klara said, disengaging.
“I will,” I said, convinced I could even if my hands felt as if they were on fire. The hug aggravated the injuries, but it might have been the stress from everything else as well. That was another thing I’d noticed while standing in the box. The pain from my burns was an excellent barometer to my anxiety.
Once she’d gone, I ate my breakfast of bread and water. The bread tasted like a brick of sand, but it might as well have been manna from heaven on account of how hungry I was. I nursed the canteen as I ate, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid inside. It would be all I’d get until supper.
My cell door opened an hour later and in strode Petrov. His eyes reminded me of a wolf who’d spotted a wounded deer, and he wore a uniform straight from the front lines: a peaked field cap, a waterproof jacket with rank diamonds on the collar, and field breeches tucked into his boots.
I shifted my weight from one leg to the other out of unease and offered a salute. “Commissar.”
Petrov stopped a couple paces away. In his hand he carried a lit pipe with a black stem and dark wood for the bowl and shank. “Why am I not surprised you’re here? But I guess it’s one step closer to swinging from a tree.”