Nadya's War

by C. S. Taylor

  “She’ll want to test me first,” I said, setting my jaw. “Or at least see how I do on one last mission.”

  “Why? Because you’ve got a fool’s hope?”

  “Because she would have grounded me already otherwise.” I said it as confidently as I could, but I knew I was grasping at straws. I had to believe I still had a shot to control my destiny.

  “Even if you’re right, your wounds still interfere with your flying, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only right thing to do is replace you.”

  My body numbed, and it felt as if I was smothered in a thick blanket. “No,” I said. “You’re wrong. There’s one thing I can do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day I learned I was slated for one mission, a simple patrol deep in our own lines, and I had nothing lined up for the remaining week aside from drills and mock combat with Zhenia and Alexandra. Tamara said the schedule was as such because she hadn’t decided what everyone’s assignments were. I knew that was a lie as I caught a glimpse of a duty roster saying otherwise. She hadn’t assigned me to combat duty because this was to be my last mission. I’d have to pull something off exceptional if I expected to keep my wings by the next day.

  While the other pilots made their morning preparations, Alexandra included, I ducked into my dugout and grabbed a small, leather-bound case I stored under my bed. Inside, I kept a picture of Mother and Father they had sent me along with a letter written a few months ago, as well as a simple silver necklace that had belonged to my grandmother and a handkerchief she swore brought good luck. I usually kept a bible wrapped in that handkerchief, but since joining the war, I’d left it at home for fear of it being discovered. Now, instead of Holy Scripture being wrapped in the cloth, I had two yellow containers, each holding five morphine syrettes. Perhaps they would be the keys to my salvation.

  Each syrette had a red and white tube that reminded me of a miniature bottle of toothpaste with a needle on top. I took off the clear plastic head that protected the needle before using the wire loop at the end to puncture the syrette’s seal.

  I pulled up my shirt to expose my stomach as I’d heard it was a good place to inject the morphine. I didn’t know how much I should use, and the instructions provided by the E. R. Squibb & Sons company were in English. I figured a quarter of the tube would do. The syrettes were often used for soldiers suffering from major trauma, and I didn’t need a lot—only enough to take the edge off the pain.

  I stuck the needle into my abdomen and gently squeezed the tube. There was a slight pinch and burning sensation as the medicine entered my body. I’d overheard the doctor a few weeks back say it could take a half hour for the morphine work, so I wouldn’t know until I was getting ready for takeoff what the effects would be. Hopefully, I injected enough, and God forbid, not too much.

  “Forgive me,” I said, as thoughts of how the Almighty viewed me popped into mind. I didn’t want to have to answer to Him on how I had obtained these syrettes and prayed He’d understand. I didn’t sell my body to get the morphine, but I may as well have. When the doctor had stepped out for lunch the prior afternoon, I slipped into his office, picked the lock to his cabinet, and took the boxes. I wasn’t a common whore, but I was a common thief.

  I’d never stolen anything before, and I was ashamed that I did. But what choice did I have? If I didn’t manage the pain, I’d never fly. I’d lose my identity and my hope at redemption. I’d likely be handed over to Petrov as well.

  Thus, my decision was simple, and I prayed that the good I’d do would outweigh my sin. I promised God and myself that once winter was over or Rademacher was dead, I’d stop using. Stop stealing. With luck, those ten syrettes would be all I’d need.

  I capped the needle and put the syrette in one of my coat pockets. I wanted to take it with me on the flight in case I needed another dose. I left the dugout after I tucked everything away and went searching for Alexandra. I found her near her plane, lying on the ground on her back, watching the clouds.

  “Change of plans for this afternoon’s flight,” I said once I was certain we were alone.

  Alexandra sat up. “We’re not on patrol?”

  “We are,” I said. “We’re going on a different route, one closer to the front lines.”

  “Do you know why Kazarinova changed her mind?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t know, but I don’t want to patrol an area with no chance in hell of seeing action. We’re going to find some on our own.”

  “What are you doing?” Alexandra whispered, taking to her feet. “You can’t just abandon a mission. You could be charged with cowardice or treason, even if you do claim you went closer to the battle.”

  Despite the cold, my palms grew sweaty. I knew what she said was true, but this was the first time I’d considered the consequences. In the end it didn’t matter much. I could be shot for being a Christian, for stealing the morphine, even for being a Cossack if the wrong person had a hunch or a bad day—and certainly for Father’s ties to the White Army. It didn’t seem to worsen my odds at being executed to stray from one mission. In a way, it was liberating to chuck caution to the wind.

  “I need a kill,” I said. “I’m hoping you’ll understand. This is my last flight if I don’t get one, and where Kazarinova is sending us on patrol, we won’t see any Luftwaffe.”

  “Why would this be your last flight?”

  I gnawed my lower lip for a few moments as I debated how much I wanted to tell her. I knew I had to tell her something, and I wished I’d thought all of this out more before bringing it up. I decided to give a short rundown of the last couple months. When I was done, I gave her an out. It was only fair. “I’ll understand if you don’t follow. There’s no need for you to risk your life on my account. We’ve only known each other a short while.”

  Alexandra rested her forehead against mine. “I don’t like deceptions, but I risk my life for you every time we’re together. I know you’d do the same for me. If I have to fly your wing somewhere else to keep you safe, so be it. I won’t let you go at it alone.”

  My heart soared over the heavens even though I could very well be dragging her down to hell. I crushed her in a bear hug. “Thanks. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  Alexandra gasped and laughed. “For love of everything, let me go before you squeeze me to death,” she said as she wiggled out of my grasp. “How are you going to pull this off?”

  “Ten minutes into the flight we’ll still have radio contact with the ground. You and I will have a conversation about an unidentified aircraft headed southwest, low and fast.”

  Alexandra grinned. “And we’re going to follow it.”

  “All the way to the Don, because that’s where the Luftwaffe are.”

  * * *

  “Little Boar, what is your status?” asked ground control. The transmission was weak and crackled as we were on the edge our radio’s range, and before we left, I’d asked to ditch my Red Eight callsign for the nickname Klara had given me. I figured it would help rebuild my friendship with her, and I loved the smile it had put on her face when she’d heard the change.

  “Unidentified aircraft last seen headed two-three-two. Lost visual contact approximately two minutes ago, still in pursuit,” I replied, hoping they’d buy our ruse. Alexandra and I had called in the fake contact a few minutes ago and had been chasing it southwest ever since. Ideally, I wanted to head more toward Stalingrad, as that’s where the majority of the fighting had been, but I didn’t want to risk someone seeing we weren’t chasing anyone, or worse, have them send us home and get fighters from the 437th to make the intercept.

  “Copy, Little Boar,” came the reply from our base. “Eyes on fuel and don’t stray too far from your patrol.”

  “Understood.”

  We flew on, some four thousand meters over the earth, a grey cloud layer above skimming the tops of our canopies. We constantly checked our sixes, and periodically rolled our planes left and right to get a better view
of what was underneath us, but saw only steppes below.

  By the time we could see the Don, I was frustrated at the lack of Luftwaffe. We peeled west, away from Stalingrad, as I didn’t want to fly into multiple Schwarms of 109s known to be in the area. What I wanted were easy pickings: a recon flight, stray bombers, or if we were lucky, a transport.

  “What do you think?” Alexandra asked. “Fuel’s about half.”

  I glanced at the fuel gauge on my wing. “I’ve got the same. We can probably land elsewhere if we have to, yes?”

  “Where you go, I go.”

  Warmth ran through my soul, and I was grateful to have such a girl flying at my side. The effectiveness of the morphine added to my uplifted mood. My hands hadn’t felt this good since before they were burned. The drug did give me a slight headache, and I occasionally felt distant, but neither were an issue if I concentrated on my tasks. Sadly, none of that would matter if I had nothing to show.

  “Pushing two-fifths left,” Alexandra said.

  “I’m aware,” I snapped. I knew she was doing her job, but the announcement rubbed me the wrong way. I grunted and hit the side of my cockpit. How was it possible we’d not seen a single other plane? Stalingrad was a short flight away and the fascists were knocking on its door. There should’ve been plenty of targets for us to engage. But there weren’t! It was as if God was determined to see me handed to Petrov.

  “Let’s head back toward the city,” I said, making a slow left turn. “We’ve got a better chance there. Hopefully we won’t run into a bunch of Schwarms.”

  We stuck to flying near the river, as I knew we still had ground forces in the area that pairs of Stukas might want to soften up. Larger flights would be headed for Stalingrad. After a few minutes, I saw the faint outline of the city in the distance. It looked peaceful from where we were, but I knew it was anything but. Down on the ground, the Soviet 62nd Army fought for its life inside the city along with the 64th, while the German 6th Army supported by portions of the 4th Panzer threatened to take it all any day. The carnage, I was told, was nothing like I could imagine. I believed it and didn’t want to try.

  “Where the hell are the damn bombers? I thought we were in a war here,” I said, hitting the side of the cockpit once more. Fuel was low, and we’d be running on fumes by the time we landed if we turned back right at that moment. But I wanted a kill. I needed one. I told myself we could always refuel at an auxiliary field if needed. Hell, I’d ditch the plane in a field if I had to, if it meant sticking around long enough to find a target.

  “I think I see something, two o’clock low,” Alexandra said.

  It took only a fraction of a second to see what she did, and I nearly jumped through my canopy with delight. A flight of four Germans was speeding across the landscape toward Stalingrad, and we were in perfect position to make the intercept with the sun at our backs. They’d never see us coming.

  “Orders?” Alexandra said, her voice as eager as I felt.

  “We’re going in.”

  I put the plane into a dive, and Alexandra followed suit. “One pass and we’re out,” I told her. “Make it count.”

  “Always.”

  I knew I’d have to do something special for Alexandra when we got back, but in that moment, I told myself to worry about that later and pick a target. It wasn’t an easy choice. There were two Stukas and two 109 escorts. The foremost were slow and easier shots, but they were armored like a tank. The Messerschmitt fighters, on the other hand, couldn’t take as much of a beating, but were nimble. They’d easily dodge my aim if we were spotted.

  I decided we should hit one of each. “I’m taking the lead Stuka,” I said. “Hit the 109 on the left.”

  “Will do.”

  My hands picked up a tremor as my plane picked up speed. I couldn’t help thinking about how similar this encounter was to the one I had with Martyona. Would it end in a similar fashion with Alexandra going down in a flaming wreck? Or myself? I didn’t see any other Luftwaffe around, so I set my jaw and focused on the gun sight.

  The Stuka jinked as I pushed both triggers, but the plane was too slow. Machine gun and cannon fire raked the length of the bomber. To my utter frustration, it neither exploded nor came apart. I pulled up into a steep climb, cursing and telling myself all the reasons why making a second pass would be foolish.

  “Burn in hell!” Alexandra screamed.

  I rolled my plane so it was inverted while climbing and saw one of the 109s lose a wing and spiral out of control. My heart soared for her, but at the same time I was frustrated and jealous my target still plodded along. I’d been patient to not fire early and land all my shots, but a victory still eluded me. I was going to have to make another pass.

  As I started renew my attack, black smoke belched out of the Stuka’s nose, and the bomber listed to the side. Then I saw the pilot jump from his plane, his parachute blossoming round a few seconds later. My face beamed, and I was so proud of myself I felt I could take on the world.

  “That’s one for each of us,” Alexandra said.

  “Did you catch the numbers on their tails?” I asked.

  “Five and three, I think,” she said. “But they were red. Not sure if they were even Udet. Definitely not your man. Regardless, I suggest we leave. I’m going to have to get out and push my plane home if we stick around much longer.”

  “Agreed,” I said, pulling on the stick to end in a shallow dive. “I’ll race you back.”

  Alexandra followed, and we returned to Anisovka. I checked our six a few times, but the remaining 109 never gave pursuit. On the way, I grew frustrated that we hadn’t killed Rademacher. I detested that he was still in the air, and the more I thought about that, the more my hate grew like a dark, hungry creature feeding off my anger. God, how I wanted the man dead and the rest of the Germans driven from our land. The only consolation I found was that while we hadn’t killed him, I felt this mission had helped refine my shooting skills so that when I did meet Rademacher again, he’d be the one to die.

  On the way back, I also wondered if he’d been as excited as I was for his first victory. Did it fill him with elation? Or was the death of another something he was amoral over? I guessed the foremost. He probably celebrated with the others in his unit, drinking beer and maybe even posing for pictures. He probably wrote his family home, too, as I planned to do. No. He didn’t have a family, I corrected. He was born from a factory of death. I didn’t want to think we had anything in common, even if it was something as ordinary as a father and mother.

  When we were about eight minutes out, I made contact with ground control. “Den, this is Little Boar. We’re coming home with two confirmed kills.”

  How I longed to say those words! They felt every bit of amazing coming out of my mouth as I had thought they would. I couldn’t wait to see the new look in people’s eyes when they saw me, a look of respect. Admiration. Best of all, I’d see it in the mirror.

  “Repeat, Little Boar. You are claiming two kills?”

  “Affirmative, Den. One Stuka. One 109. We saw them both go down.”

  “Congratulations, Little Boar. Celebrations are in order. Stay sharp, and we’ll see you soon.”

  I checked over both shoulders once more and saw only Alexandra’s plane sharing the bright blue sky with me. I was so thrilled to get down, I didn’t even glance at my fuel until I was on final approach and the engine sputtered once before quitting.

  “Oh damn,” I said, laughing and feathering the prop for minimum drag. “Den, Little Boar is declaring no fuel and a dead-stick landing.”

  “Understood. We have visual on you. Will you reach the runway?”

  I readjusted my grip on the stick and rolled my shoulders to try and relax. “I think so,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I was. While a dead-stick landing was something every pilot had trained for numerous times, it still could turn messy. A sudden wind or a misjudged angle could force an off landing that might not end well. Uneven terrain had the tendency to r
uin planes, and I didn’t want this flight to be marred in any way. If I crashed, Tamara would likely strip my wings, regardless of the kill. Besides, dying for something so silly wasn’t appealing either.

  A tense half minute later, all of which I held my breath for, I made a perfect three-point landing a good hundred meters into the runway. I coasted as far as I could before pulling off to the side so Alexandra—who had to be running on fumes—could land behind me. God, I couldn’t wait to see the look on Petrov’s face when he learned what I’d done.

  Once my fighter was parked, I opened the canopy, unbuckled everything, and stood on my seat, arms stretched high, and screamed with joy till my lungs gave out. I jumped out of the cockpit and slid off the wing as Klara bolted to me.

  She grabbed me by my hands and spun me around. “You did it? Tell me you shot down a fascist!”

  “Stop! You’re making me dizzy!” I said, laughing.

  “Oh, the big, bad pilot is losing her balance, is she?” Klara said, tightening her grip and spinning me harder.

  Someone slammed into me a moment later, knocking me to the ground and the air out of my lungs.

  “You’re the greatest wing leader in the world, Nadya!” Alexandra said. “That was the most amazing, mind-blowing thing I’ve ever done!”

  “That . . . really . . . hurt,” I said, gasping for air.

  Before I could find my own feet, my wingman pulled me up and into a waltzing position. A heartbeat later, we were dancing down the runway. “We’re going to make the best team in the world, Nadya,” she said with boundless energy. “Wait and see.”

  In that moment, I didn’t disagree with her, but Klara’s blank stare chilled me to the core.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me from a blissful dream of sipping wine with Mother and Grandmother while stargazing, something all three of us loved to do. I fought returning to the land of the conscious with every fiber of my worn-out body, but whoever was at my bed shook me hard enough to make slumber elusive and give me a motive for murder.