Nadya's War

by C. S. Taylor

  “Nadya,” Alexandra said. “Did you see that convoy?”

  I twisted in my seat. A two-lane road was a kilometer or so off to the right, flanked on either side by trees. I didn’t see any trucks and assumed we passed them. “Negative. How many?”

  “A dozen?” Alexandra said. “A couple of kilometers behind us by now.”

  Twelve trucks. A good score by any measure, but I wanted more. I wanted something flying, something noteworthy. Shooting up supplies paled to dropping a plane. Still, it was better than nothing, and we might not catch anything else before fuel levels forced us back.

  “Okay, follow me in. We’ll reassess after we tear them apart on the first pass.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  I eagerly pulled the plane into a gentle climb and banked right. I spotted the convoy as I swung around and counted eight Opel trucks. They were the backbone of Germany’s motor vehicles, four-wheeled speedy machines that weighed a couple thousand kilos. Most of the ones we spotted carried crates and equipment in the backs of their open flatbeds, while two others were covered—possibly carrying troops inside. Whatever they held didn’t matter. They were all about to share the same grisly fate.

  My zeal faded as I leveled the plane at three hundred meters, which was low enough to get a good angle on the trucks but high enough to avoid small arms. The hairs on my body raised when the last vehicle in the convoy entered my sights about a half kilometer away. My soul shrieked in horror when I mashed both triggers.

  My twin machine guns pumped a steady stream of bullets into the convoy, while the 20mm ShVAK took large chunks out of everything it hit. The trucks swerved off both sides of the road, and one of them even caught fire. Soldiers jumped from one of the covered ones, and I adjusted my aim to shoot into their ranks. Bodies fell. As I zoomed by a moment later, I caught sight of the carnage in full detail. My stomach churned at the slaughter. They hadn’t a chance. Though I was defending my homeland, I detested being a butcher.

  I put my moral arguments to the side and banked left while dipping low so the trees shielded my movements from the surviving Germans. I checked the skies as well for enemy fighters, and thankfully, there were none. “Status?” I asked.

  “South of their position, swinging around,” Alexandra said. “We tore them apart. Good thing we caught them with their pants down.”

  My brow furrowed as I tried to understand what she was referring to. “Why?”

  “Second Opel from the front had a 20mm anti-air in its bed,” she said. “Not something I want pointed back at me.”

  “Or me,” I said. “Or anyone else.”

  The last words slipped out of my mouth without much thought, but once they hung in the air, I chewed on them. I pictured it being placed at Stalingrad and shooting down countless numbers of our planes. I couldn’t let that happen, even if it meant a dangerous gamble to our own life and limb. “Set up for another pass,” I said. “We’re not letting that thing stay intact.”

  “It’s one 20mm,” Alexandra protested. “It’s not going to tip the war.”

  In the back of my mind, I knew she was right. Regardless, we had to take it out. There was a reason we had to. Briefing, was it? God, that headache was back, and it was too hard to think. I traded my thoughts for action. “Where I go, you go, right?”

  Alexandra sighed. “Always. If it starts shooting at us, it’s not going to be pretty.”

  “I know,” I said. “Come from the south. I’ll hit them from the north. Whoever they target, takes evasive action while the other blows it apart. They can’t possibly hit us both, right?”

  “Copy,” she said, still sounding less than pleased. “Starting my run now.”

  I popped my plane up to five hundred meters and brought it around for another strafing run. At first, it was hard to pick out which truck had the AA gun. My eyes had trouble focusing on everything that far away. I rubbed them with my left hand, and as soon as I did, tracers zipped in my direction. It took me a moment to realize what that meant and half as long to respond.

  “Taking fire,” I said, turning sharply. I cut across the road and then rolled back in the direction I’d been traveling. I didn’t want them to lose sight on me, only their aim.

  Time crawled. Streaks of fire stretched through the air and missed my plane by a dozen meters. Half dozen. Hit.

  My ears rang, and I felt a concussive blast across my body. The air smelled of gunpowder. The wind howled in my cockpit. I dove the plane to the ground, ducking it out of sight of the Germans.

  “Nailed him!” Alexandra screamed over the radio, her voice giddy. “It won’t even be fit for scrap!”

  “Some of my gauges are toast,” I said, staring at the several large pieces of shrapnel sticking out of the console. At least I could still read the oil pressure and temp. They looked right, and the blood covering them was barely noticeable.

  My vision dimmed, and I felt woozy. “Oh God,” I said. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Where?” Alexandra said, sliding her fighter next to mine. A cubit wouldn’t have fit between our wingtips. “Damn it, Nadya, answer me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to keep it together. I prayed I’d remain composed enough not to crash, but I could feel myself coming unglued. Everything I touched had blood on it. My pants. The stick. The throttle. I breathed deeply, but it didn’t help. “Blood is everywhere.”

  “Okay, okay,” she replied. I knew she was trying to sound calm. She was anything but. “Where does it hurt?”

  Such a simple way of finding an injury, but I couldn’t feel anything other than my heart pounding against my chest. Endorphins must have kicked in, preventing me from feeling the wound. Maybe the morphine had something to do with it as well. Regardless, it had to be severe. “My arm hurts,” I said. “But that’s normal.”

  Alexandra banked left when I accidentally drifted toward her. She swung back when I stabilized my flight, though kept more distance. “You’re going to make it. We’re what, an hour away? I can tell you about my barn incident on the way.”

  “I don’t think I want to know,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “What happened?”

  “First boyfriend—well, serious one—and the first time we really ravished one another. We snuck in to a barn late at night, and in the midst of flying clothes and fumbling kisses, I tipped the lantern and started a fire. Barely got my clothes before the whole thing went up in flames.”

  “Could we not talk about a raging inferno?” I said, cringing.

  Alexandra cursed. “Sorry. Forget I said that. We’ll be back home nibbling chocolate and sipping wine before you know it.”

  “Except you don’t have either.”

  “Stop spoiling my fantasy, you dullard,” she said with a laugh. “I’m trying to help. Think of something pleasant instead of being so argumentative.”

  So I did. I thought about riding horses back home, singing for my grandmother, and being read to by Father when I was five. Sadly, those thoughts all led to the same thing. I’d never see my family again.

  My eyes locked on the clock that sat to the bottom left of the console. I found the second hand’s ticking hypnotic. Klara’s words about finding beauty in moments of angst came back, and so I tried to look at everything in a new light. The sky was a gorgeous blue and reminded me of pure water from mountain lakes. The howling coming from the hole in my cockpit sounded like how Grandfather would blow across a jug when I was young.

  The blood still rattled me. I ran my hand over my head, and cringed at the stickiness it left behind. Frustrated, I looked at my palm, and that’s when I noticed the gash in my glove. Blood seeped from the hole, and I peeled back the leather to get a better view.

  “God, I’m such a fool,” I said, laughing so hard Alexandra had to pull her plane away when I knocked the controls.

  “What?”

  “Shrapnel cut my hand. Nothing bad, but it’s messy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not one bit. Half dozen stit
ches at the most.”

  Despite the minor injury, I hit the side of my canopy, disgusted at what it represented. I’d been incredibly lucky, and had I been flying better, clearer, I could’ve avoided the hit altogether. God, this morphine road was not one I wanted to walk down any further, but the pain from my wounds wouldn’t simply go away either. Though I didn’t have an answer for the latter, I hastily pulled out the syrette and threw it out the hole the AA gun had made in my cockpit. I even spit after it for good measure. I’d find a way to cope, I prayed, for my wingman’s life if not my own.

  We flew the rest of the flight without incident, sticking low and fast to the ground. I was certain when we landed Major Gridnev would be glad with our efforts. It turned out glad was an understatement. Once we were debriefed, he was thrilled. He did, however, make me promise two things before leaving. First, to get my hand looked at, and second, to never get shot up again. A 20mm shell through the cockpit was too close of a call for him, especially as it was his first official day as the commanding officer, and we were flying missions brass hadn’t a clue about.

  At Doctor Burak’s office, my hand needed nine stitches. He tried to make small talk with me, even tried a couple of not-so-subtle passes. I paid half attention to him as he worked. My mind was thinking about the hit I took.

  How was I still alive? Had the shot been a little lower, it would have taken off my leg. A little higher and rearward and it would have ripped through my chest. And why did the shell explode mostly on the outside of the plane? They had fuses that were designed to penetrate an aircraft a certain amount before detonating. Had the shell exploded inside, I might as well have had a grenade in my lap.

  I left the doctor’s office and wondered if God was looking out for me after all. Grandmother would have said so, always did. If He was, why hadn’t He looked after Martyona or Valeriia? Were they worse than me? On the other hand, maybe He was toying with me, flaunting His power and showing He could save me or end me on a whim. Or maybe it was a wakeup call about my drug use. Who the hell knew?

  I rubbed my temples, worried at how little sense my train of thought had. The morphine was still in my system and felt stronger than before. I had to be peaking. I couldn’t feel any pain from my burns, and if I could think better, maybe I could work all this out.

  My head cleared by lunch, and I realized how unfit to fly I was on the drug. I came to this conclusion when it dawned on me Alexandra had given most of the debriefing—thankfully—and I was barely able to remember the general order of events, let alone specific details.

  Anger at endangering my wingman’s life in such a careless fashion reignited in my soul. Preserving my self-worth as a pilot wasn’t worth losing anyone over, especially such a dear friend. I could tough it out. I could fly. I had to. I’d find a way to manage my burns and bring down Rademacher.

  That anger turned into self-loathing when I thought about the German and how I was sure he’d never stoop to using drugs as a way to cope. He had me there, sadly, a far more strong-willed individual than I proved to be, yet another trait of his I was envious of. But at least I was determined to quit. I had that going. And at least my family would never know. God, that would send both parents to an early grave out of shame if they ever found out.

  My determination to stop the morphine did lift my mood, and I napped through the afternoon. I skipped supper when I briefly rose, deciding I was so tired I could easily sleep until morning. Sometime around midnight, I was torn from sleep by thunder in the skies and lighting coursing through my hand. It felt like I was being stabbed over and over, and for five minutes I lay in bed, gritting my teeth, sweating profusely as I promised myself I’d endure at all costs. I even prayed for strength.

  At some point, I had a syrette in hand and wanted to use it more than ever. Alexandra stirred, giving me a jolt and a panicked escape from my desires. I was too afraid to get out of bed and rummage for my box for fear of getting caught, so I cautiously slipped the syrette into a hole in the mattress. I promised myself I’d destroy it and the rest later. As I finally fell back asleep, I prayed I’d have the resolve to do so when the time came.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning I woke, unsure what the day would bring. I wasn’t scheduled for patrols since my fighter was so torn up that Klara would need a day or so to patch the damage and clean out the cockpit. Or so I assumed. I hadn’t seen her since I’d returned. All that changed when I left the mess hall after a hearty breakfast of stale bread, bland cheese, and frigid water, and bumped into her on the airfield.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” she said. Her eyes held a fire I’d never seen before, and she toyed with the wrench in her hand as if she wanted to brain someone with it.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You come back with a hole blown through the cockpit, your blood everywhere, and you can’t even bother to tell me you’re all right?”

  A pit of guilt took home in my stomach. God, how had I forgotten? The Divine didn’t have to respond for me to know the answer: morphine. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I stepped closer in an effort to diffuse her anger, and she shied away. “I don’t know what to say. We came back, and I wasn’t thinking-”

  “That’s just it, Nadya, you weren’t thinking. Damn it, I already had to clean one body up. You could’ve at least checked in with me when you returned instead of giving me a damn heart attack when I got to your plane.”

  “One body?” I barely got the words out, and I wondered if forgetting most of yesterday was a blessing or a curse. “Who?”

  Klara grunted, and she looked at me with equal parts incredulity and concern. “The mail plane crashed yesterday,” she said. “I helped pick up pieces of the pilot. After that, when I got done washing, I found the inside of your fighter.”

  Her face paled, and her eyes looked distant. The memory, fresh as ever, tormented her. My words, however, were anything but understanding and the moment I spoke them, I wished I could’ve taken them back. “You should’ve asked Alexandra.”

  “I talked to her only as long as I could stomach her,” she said. “She told me you were in the dugout, and I went there to find you sleeping. That’s how little you think of me, is it? You’d rather take a nap than let me know you didn’t get your leg blown off.”

  As bad as I felt about giving Klara the shock of her life, her ill words toward my wingman took me off the defensive. “I wouldn’t let her talk about you like that, and I won’t let you do the same. Mind your place and remember she’s an officer, and you are not. And for that matter, so am I.”

  “Of course,” she said, giving a half-hearted curtsy. She tried to sound tough, but the waver in her voice and tears in her eyes shattered her façade. “You’re just like her, aren’t you? Looking down at us lowly folk, only bothering to speak when it suits your fancy.”

  I groaned in frustration. What I had hoped was going to be a simple day had turned into anything but. I felt like wrapping my fingers around her thin neck and throttling her. My hand ached, and I could tell it wouldn’t be long before it became bothersome. “Go away, Klara, before I say something I’ll regret.”

  “Gladly. I’m tired of you playing games with my head,” she said. She turned her back on me and walked off, and as she did, I heard her mutter one last thing. “Stupid, stingy Cossack.”

  I grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. The momentum generated whipped her wrench through the air, and it connected with the side of my head. I crumpled to the ground, my world a mess of shapeless colors and a high-pitched ringing.

  Slowly, everything took form. Klara was kneeling over me, eyes wide with terror, patting my face. “It was an accident I swear,” she said. She looked up for a second and the color drained from her face. “You have to believe me.”

  In a quiet pond, devils dwell. I gave that proverb life when I grabbed her by the back of the head, pulled her in, and kissed her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Klara’s lips were ex
actly what I expected the winter goddess Morena’s would be like, soft as down and as cold as a Siberian winter. Klara put a tentative hand on my shoulder. While we were pressed together, I could feel her hold her breath for a few heart beats before pushing away.

  “Why did you do that?” she said, her face pale and voice weak. She traced the edge of her mouth with her finger, and her eyes glazed. “It’s not what I wanted.”

  I took to my feet, probing my head where she clobbered me. I winced, and my hand came back covered in blood. “I don’t know,” I said. “Seemed funny at the time. Better than hitting you back, don’t you think?”

  She stepped away. “Are you crazy? It wasn’t funny, and I don’t want attention.”

  “Klara, to the box! Nadya, with me right now!”

  I spun around, which caused me to stumble on account of dizziness. Gridnev marched toward us with a couple of armed soldiers. He moved like a dark storm carrying the fury of the sea. I put myself between them and Klara. “I’m fine, Major,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  “Step aside and come with me now, Junior Lieutenant,” he said. “This isn’t a polite suggestion.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to leave Klara to the wolves. Gridnev opened his mouth to say something else, something I guessed would make things a thousand times worse, and I capitulated. “Yes, comrade major,” I said. My shoulders slumped and I moved to the side. “Where are we going?”

  “Command post.”

  I fell in step behind him when he spun around and left. The two guards rushed by and took Klara into custody. As they led her away, she silently pleaded with me to save her. I prayed I could. Striking an officer was serious, and kissing one—of the same sex no less—was probably as much so. The 20s were friendly to such relationships, relatively speaking, but under Stalin, persecution had been common up until the war. Now the consequence of such behavior was a gamble, largely depending on who saw it and what their attitudes were. I had no idea where the Major stood on the matter.