by C. S. Taylor
“The hell I will,” I muttered, flipping off the radio.
I eased off the throttle and pulled the nose up. Off to the side I saw a fire truck and one of the squad cars racing down the airstrip toward the crash site. My plane flared and the wheels touched the ground. The moment they did, I hit the brakes, hard. The tail picked up, and I had to let off them a touch as well as pull on the stick to keep the fighter from tipping over forward and giving the base a second wrecked plane to pick up.
I didn’t speak a single word to God, terrified of His constant silence. Instead, I decided I would be the one to determine what would and would not happen. I opened the cockpit and leaned out the window to steer better. I managed to dodge the larger chunks of debris on the runway, though I did feel a distinct jolt in the seat when I hit some that couldn’t be avoided. Thankfully, the wheels took the abuse.
I killed the engine and let the plane roll. With a little rudder, I steered it next to Alexandra’s wreck, unbuckling my belt in the process. My fighter had yet to come to a stop before I was out of the cockpit, sliding off the wing, and rolling on the ground with a thump.
I bolted to Alexandra’s mangled plane. Each and every bullet hole in the fuselage bored into my mind. At least the plane hadn’t exploded, I told myself. At least there was no fire.
“Alexandra!” I yelled once I reached the side of the cockpit, banging hard against the glass. “Wake up!”
She lifted her head. Her gaze, full of bliss and confusion, held mine, and she smiled. She fumbled for the canopy latches. Together we opened the cockpit.
“You’re alive,” I said, tears rolling, breath leaving. “I feared the worst.”
“I can be stubborn like that,” she replied.
I reached in to help her out, but my hands retracted when I saw her blood-soaked jacket and the splatter covering the gauges. “Don’t move,” I said. “They’ll be here in a moment.”
I tore off my jacket and pressed it against the wound in her right side. It was a little lower than her ribcage. She whimpered when I touched her, and I kept the pressure up when she tried to bat my hand away.
Emergency crews were on us within a few breaths. They pushed by and had to pry me away from the cockpit, shouting as they did. Two of the men pulled her from the plane while a third waited nearby to help put her in the back of the car. I jumped in with her, despite more shouts and yells for me to do otherwise.
The car took off. I stroked Alexandra’s head as she laid it in my lap. I wanted to say something, anything, but words failed me. Two things raced through my mind. First, all of this was my fault. Second, she wasn’t going to see tomorrow.
Alexandra opened her eyes. “Nadya? You’re here?”
“Where you go, I go,” I whispered.
We came to a stop at a two-story building. Men came and took her from me, men with a stretcher, men who kept me from following her into the operating room. Despite both verbal and physical protests, all I was allowed to do was sit in a large hall, filled with beds and the wounded, and wait for the news that she’d earned the highest glory: dying in defense of the Motherland against the fascist horde.
An hour later, I looked up from my seat with weary, blood-shot eyes as Alexandra was brought into the room on a stretcher and placed in the empty bed next to me. The men who came said nothing and moved with a purpose that said they had far too much to do to entertain any sort of pleasantries. Still, my spirits were so low, I would have lapped up any kindness like a stray dog dying of thirst at a newly found puddle.
Another hour passed, maybe two or three, before she came to. The entire time I sat there, holding her hand, my eyes watched her chest rise and fall and stared at the fresh, bloodied bandage on her side.
“Hi,” she said, giving a feeble squeeze of my hand. “You’re still here.”
“Where you go, I go,” I said with a sniffle.
She laughed stiffly. “I feel . . . different.”
“You should. There’s a new hole in your side. Or was, at least. They said they stitched it.”
Alexandra shook her head. “No, not like that. You know how normally you walk around this world and in the back of your mind, it’s how everything should be, like this is your home? I don’t feel that anymore.”
“It’s because you’re tired,” I said, knowing full well it was a lie. “Besides, you’re not allowed to go. Who will massage my arms and keep me out of trouble?”
“Maybe. But you’re strong enough on your own Nadya. Always have been.” She sighed, and right then I knew I’d done her a great disservice. As much as I feared everything she might say, in the end, I’m glad she didn’t retreat from the conversation as I had. “When tomorrow rolls in, promise me something Nadya.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you won’t hate yourself.”
I turned my head, reliving every moment from the last few hours in vivid detail. How could I ever meet such a request after failing to look out for her? “I don’t think I can.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
I leaned over and rested my head on her shoulder. “I’m a terrible wing leader. I never should have gotten us separated.”
“No, you’re a human one.”
Her kind words kept me from entering an awful spiral of self-hate. Though she didn’t say it, her forgiveness couldn’t have been any clearer. I started to wonder when I’d cross paths with Rademacher again and who would win the encounter. History said I wouldn’t. Even if I did become the victor, what would that change? Avenging Alexandra, Tania, and Martyona wouldn’t bring them back, and it wouldn’t make me a good pilot. Skilled, yes, but not good. There was nothing good about war. It simply was.
“When I was three, I got lost once when I wandered out in the woods. I’d never been more frightened in my life, and it turned out I was only a few hundred meters from the house when they found me at night.” She paused to pat my head. “And now, you’d think this is my darkest hour, but I’m not scared at all, especially with you here. It’s like you’re taking me home, and isn’t that what a wing leader is always supposed to do? Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
I felt her breathing weaken and slow. “I’m so sick of all of this,” I said. “Every day it’s another bullet, another friend—family. We kill one of theirs. They kill one of ours. And for what?”
“To protect what we have and the ones we love.”
“I know, but that doesn’t make me any less weary. And thinking about Rademacher makes it worse. He could have killed us both, but didn’t. Who does that?”
“A man sick of war.”
I nodded. “Or a man touched with madness. I’m not sure which I believe. He never struck me as either when I met him.”
“My head is floating. Do me a favor?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Sing to me,” she said. She coughed, laughed, and hit me on the top of my head. “Because I’m so awful, the least you could do is serenade me once and show me how it’s done.”
I lifted my head off her shoulder. My stomach tightened. Any requested performance made me nervous, but a final one made my anxiety a thousand fold worse. I tried to think of something to sing to her, something meaningful and from the heart. Something she could listen to, relax to, fall asleep to. And that is how I settled on a lullaby.
Sleep, my darling, sleep, my baby,
Close your eyes and sleep.
Darkness comes; into your cradle
Moonbeams shyly peep.
Many pretty songs I’ll sing you
And a lullaby.
Pleasant dreams the night will bring you . . .
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
Muddy waters churn in anger,
Loud the Terek roars,
And a Chechen with a dagger
Creeps onto the shore.
Steeled your father is in gory
Battle . . . You and I,
Little one, we need not worry,
Sleep, dear, rock-a-bye.
My
voice carried through the air like an angel consoling the frightened and lost. The entire room had quieted by the end, and when I was finished, I noticed Alexandra was asleep.
She never woke up.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I sat in that chair for countless hours, even when the bed was empty and later occupied by someone else. The halls filled with the wounded, and I learned a bomb had taken out the 895th Rifle Regiment HQ the day before and survivors were still being brought in. I eventually gave up my seat to a recent amputee who had no other place to rest.
Waiting gave me a lot of time to reflect. I’d been so hung up on the idea that being a good fighter pilot was my only path to happiness and self-worth that it took Alexandra’s death to make me realize I was chasing an illusion. What I’d been longing for since that last flight with Martyona was acceptance, not from others—certainly Alexandra and Klara gave that to me—but from myself. And no amount of Luftwaffe dead by my hands would grant me that. As depressing as all that sounded, for the first time I had a glimmer of hope I could heal. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to defend my home, I did, but I did that because of circumstances. What I was choosing at this point was to find a way to be comfortable in my own skin, scars and all. But with a war raging, I knew that would be far easier said than done.
During that time, I took no food, and the only drink that passed my lips was due to the soldier who drove me back to Rakhinka airfield the next morning holding a canteen to my mouth and tipping it up. Most of it wetted my jacket, but what liquid did find its way to my parched throat was soothing.
When the dawn’s light crested the horizon, I found myself sitting in my cockpit at the end of the runway, waiting to fly home. No one was there to hug me and tell me to come back safe. No one told me where I went, they would go. I had no God. No enemy. My only company was loneliness.
“Little Boar, this is Badger,” the radio said. “Repeat, you are cleared for takeoff.”
Mindlessly, I pushed the throttle forward. The plane picked up speed, and for a split second, I thought about letting my feet off the rudder. Without any corrective input, the plane would spin itself off to the side, and with luck, would take me in the crash. But those thoughts were born from frustration and anger. I wanted to live. I also wanted to keep my squadron’s reputation intact. I definitely didn’t want to be known as that Cossack girl from the 586th who left a dreadful mess. Silly, I know.
I was in the air and making my first turn toward Anisovka when I looked left and saw column after column of smoke rising from Stalingrad. Instead of continuing my course home, I entered a steep, spiral climb until I was just under the cloud layer.
“Little Boar-”
I flipped the radio off. Anything they said would cloud my thinking. I made a slow circle of the area, my eyes fixed toward the city. The fighting still raged, and I had to laugh at my own pity. Those dying for gains in the street literally measured in houses, if not rooms or even meters, would laugh at me being this distraught over the loss of one friend—sister in arms or not. How many had each of them seen killed? Hundreds? Thousands? More to the point, when had they stopped counting? I couldn’t imagine, nor did I want to.
But I could imagine something. Gerhard Rademacher’s 109 would be over those skies, looking to pounce on the Red Army Air. I checked my gauges one last time to ensure there were no surprises and put the plane on a direct course for Stalingrad. I wanted to find him, engage him, and put a close to it all, one way or another.
On the east bank of the Volga River, I spied countless Red Army artillery batteries firing into the city. Stalingrad rocked and burned with a violence second only to Mount Vesuvius’s wrath on Pompeii. Even from three kilometers up in the air I could see the fighting was as fierce as ever. The battle in the skies looked non-existent. Not a single Luftwaffe could be seen anywhere.
“I know you’re up here,” I mumbled. “Somewhere.”
Paranoia set in, and I weaved my plane to check my six. He had to be around, watching me, waiting for his opportunity to attack and put me in the grave as he had done to all the girls before me.
I clenched my jaw with frustration and popped above the clouds, thinking he might be flying high. Over the white cotton tops, all I could see was a beautiful blue winter sky with me as its sole occupant.
I eased back the throttle until I was on the verge of a stall so when I slid open the canopy it wouldn’t jam. The cold air roared into the cockpit, blasted my face, and stung my cheeks and nose. My palms ached, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before they became excruciating.
I leaned out the cockpit as best I could, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rademacher’s plane. “Where the hell are you?”
My scream never had a chance against the wind and engine, not that it mattered anyway. As I slid the canopy back into place, I knew he wasn’t around. Then I realized I didn’t want a dogfight with him. I only wanted a confrontation where I could understand him to make sense of all his actions. Sadly, that was the one thing this war would never provide.
I turned the plane north-northeast, pushed the throttle forward, and entered a shallow dive. I skimmed my belly a few meters above the Volga’s surface and followed the river all the way back to Anisovka. Along the way, I wondered what people would say to me about Alexandra’s loss, Klara’s words especially.
Then I wondered where the hell God was in all of this. Was there a method to His madness as to why He never stopped the killing? I turned the question over in my mind, and the more I did, the more I found hope in Alexandra’s words. Maybe God was brushing the world’s teeth and things would become clear on the other side of life. I had nothing else to grab on to.
“Little Boar, this is Den,” the tower at Anisovka said when I neared. “You are cleared to land. Welcome home.”
I swore under my breath. The operator’s voice was so . . . upbeat. I wasn’t expecting a total breakdown on their end, but acknowledging my flight was returning minus one would have been appreciated.
Once down, I taxied to my plane’s parking spot. Klara directed me into place with slouched shoulders and a blank stare. The spot was roomier than last I saw it. The space next to it, Alexandra’s, was empty, and the sight of it hit me in the gut like a cannon.
I killed the engine and slid back the canopy. Even on the ground, frozen air stung my face, and I loathed to get out and face the regiment. I slumped forward and whispered, “God help me.”
An arm snaked across my back, and Klara’s cheek pressed into mine. “I’ll help you.”
I sank into that touch of warmth, something my soul craved. I grabbed and squeezed her tight, dying for a bit of goodness to cling to. I pulled her into the cockpit, and she looked up at me, laughing first, then horrified she’d done so.
“Sorry,” I said, not moving one bit to help her out of her awkward position. It was a good thing she was small. We barely fit in the cockpit together. “I’m a mess.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you since Gridnev told us about Alexandra. I almost thought you wouldn’t come back on your own.”
“What else did he say?”
“He said the two of you fought bravely and saved many lives, and that she’s left a hole in his heart that will never fill.”
His words were kind, but deep down, I wish he hadn’t said them, at least, not yet. “So he gave her service already,” I said, angry at him that he’d done so already and at myself for being so petty. “I would have liked to have been there.”
“He said a few words. Maybe there will be more later.”
“No. That’s all she’ll get. That’s all anyone gets.”
My eyes dried out and stared at nothing in particular for a few moments before Klara reached up and brushed back my hair. She pulled her hand back and said, “You should let me up. I might kiss you and everyone will see.”
“I might let you.”
That was all the encouragement she needed, and I fell into the intimacy of her intoxicating embrace
and cast aside the world.
We parted, and Klara gently wiped her mouth. “People will start paying attention soon if we don’t go.”
“I don’t care anymore,” I said. My words drew a puzzled smile from her. “What’s the point in hiding anything if we can already die at any moment? That’s not living. That’s waiting for Death.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, looking frightened and hopeful. “But if it’s the same to you, I don’t want my neck stretched.”
I ran my fingers through her hair and gave her a playful tug. “I could think of something to do with it, later. But right now, my legs are falling asleep.”
I helped her out of the cockpit before getting out of the plane and sliding off the wing. I wouldn’t call my movements lively, but they were several steps away from the grave mood I’d been in. Perhaps I’d survive Alexandra’s loss after all. That said, I still wanted things to be over. The flights. The war. The killing.
Klara looked down at the wrench she was carrying and toyed with it as we walked. Something was on her mind, but I could tell what she said next wasn’t what she was thinking about. “Gridnev said he wants to see you as soon as you land—for the official after-action report.”
“I know,” I said. “They told me on the radio before I landed.”
“Also, the Commissar was poking around your dugout while you were away.”
My blood turned to ice. “Why?”
Klara shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I imagine he was looking for anything he could use against you.”
I almost didn’t ask. I was afraid she’d think I was using again, even though I wasn’t. But I was really terrified that he’d found the syrette I’d tossed in the oil drum. “What did he find?”
A hint of confusion flickered in her eyes. “Nothing I’m aware of. Why? Could he have?”
I exhaled. “I’m tired and paranoid he’d plant something, I guess.”
Klara chuckled. “I know he doesn’t like you, but I don’t think he’d stoop to that.”
“I hope not, but I need to report in. I’ll talk to you later,” I said, before starting for the command post.