Nadya's War

by C. S. Taylor

  Klara’s laugh blasted over the radio, music to my soul. “You trying to teach me everything you know over the next ten minutes?”

  “I’m only passing on tidbits that could save your life.”

  “Well, here’s something I’m going to pass on,” she said. “I hate this plane.”

  I chuckled at the unexpected remark and feigned a deep hurt. “What? We’re flying the same one. You always said you loved my fighter.”

  “I do love your fighter. I hate this one. It’s fresh from the factory and barely broken in,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about its personality.”

  “Guess you’ll have fun discovering it,” I said. “Be sure to give it a paint job that reflects it.”

  “Like your cross?”

  Her tone was curious, but it held an edge of shock. “You don’t have to have one if you don’t like,” I replied. “But I like my cross. It’s from the Knights Hospitaller.”

  “I know what it is. Why do you want it?”

  “I admire who they were,” I said. “Their strength, their unwavering trust in God in a world that made no sense, and if I’m going into mortal combat, I think they’re admirable role models.”

  “If you say.” She sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t have painted something so against the Motherland. People will wonder about you, but I guess it’s your choice.” The conversation died for a moment, and Klara picked it up before I replied. “Nadya, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you like that. My nerves are getting the best of me.”

  “You’re doing better than I did my first time. When we get home, you’ll laugh looking back.”

  We zipped over the frozen landscape for another ten minutes before the radio crackled to life. It was the tower from Anisovka. “Little Boar, be advised, Code Siren has been ordered.”

  This was it then. The command to launch the attack had been given. I couldn’t begin to imagine what was happening on the ground, but going by earlier talks with Gridnev, the response must have been on a massive scale like no other.

  I rolled my shoulders and stretched both arms to loosen up for battle. Fog still blanketed the ground, and I wondered if the pilots we’d be escorting would be able to see their targets.

  It wasn’t long before we rendezvoused with Sparrow flight—the group of planes we were to protect—about twenty kilometers north of The Don. The Ilyushin Il-2s were single-engine, ground-attack fighters and a bane of the German armies. Each plane bristled with 23mm cannons and 7.62mm machine guns, as well as a rear gunner. On top of those, each also carried full racks of bombs. Truly they brought hell’s fury to the battlefield, and their legendary toughness helped to ensure they’d wreak havoc on enemy lines and live to tell about it. They were more than enough to obliterate our targets, provided Klara and I could keep them alive.

  “Glad to have you with us, Little Boar,” their flight leader said. “Keep us clear and we’ll do the rest.”

  Our flight crossed The Don shortly before nine. The fog had thinned, and the sight we were greeted with stole my breath. The Red Army swarmed the ground like ants with countless tanks and a thousand times that in men, all driving toward the Romanian lines. Fresh craters filled the landscape, a testament to an artillery barrage that had rained down on the enemy with the wrath of an angry god. Smoke rose from the earth and burning vehicles.

  “Do you think anyone survived that?” Klara asked, her words mirroring my thoughts.

  “I don’t see how anyone could have.”

  We’d barely passed over our own troops when tracers leapt from the ground toward us. They appeared to bend away at the last moment, an optical illusion due to our speed and the gunners not adequately leading their shots. I brought my plane up a few hundred meters. There was no reason for us to be low at this point, and a lucky cannon shell would ruin our day like dynamite ruined a house of cards. “Popping up to cover.”

  My eyes scanned the area, searching for hungry Luftwaffe pilots. I also kept tabs on where we were headed with equal intensity. I suppose I should have left navigation to our targets up to the boys in the Il-2s, but with Gridnev’s adamant statement that these guns had to be destroyed at all costs, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, including our escorted pilots getting lost.

  “I can’t make out anything,” one of Sparrow’s pilots said. “Where’s their damn artillery?”

  “Hard to say with all the fog,” Sparrow Leader replied. “We should be having breakfast with the ground crews by now. Wide circle left. Little Boar, can you see anything up there?”

  “Just anti-air,” I said. Surely those guns would be near our targets. What else would they be protecting?

  “I think I’ve got them. East, about four kilometers away,” Klara said.

  I turned my head right and found what she’d spotted. Underneath a small row of trees were at least six guns in a loose row at the top of a small hill. Next to them were trucks, and a little way off were some vehicles I assumed towed more anti-air. Even from a distance, the artillery looked imposing. I could only imagine what they looked like up close. The second I spotted them, all six fired. The flashes from their muzzles made me say a quick prayer for those who’d be receiving those shells.

  I put my plane high and left of the Il-2 formation, proud of my wingman. “Nice work, Klara,” I said. “Sparrow flight, do you have eyes on target?”

  “Copy, Little Boar. We’re starting our attack.”

  I watched the Il-2s make a tight circle near to the ground. I knew I should have been scanning the sky, but a morbid curiosity kept me engrossed on the Il-2s. “Keep watching the skies,” I told Klara, figuring she’d be enough for the next few moments. “Can’t afford to let any fascist pilots slip in now.”

  “I am. I am,” she said. Her voice sounded irritated, as if I were a parent nagging her for the umpteenth time to tend to chores already being done.

  The anti-air fire intensified as the boys made their run. One of the trailing Il-2s took a hit to the wing and then three more to the fuselage. Black smoke poured from its nose, and fire spread down its side. My gut tightened for the crew. The pilot kept his plane on course with the others, and I watched in equal parts awe and horror as all four planes dumped their ordnance on the Romanian forces. Sixteen explosions in all sent up large plumes of snow and debris.

  Fragments of wreckage from the artillery were still in the sky when the damaged Il-2 disintegrated. My body numbed, and I banked to watch the fireball slam into the ground. I told myself the crew was dead long before it hit, but I didn’t believe it. I’d been in a plane like that, and Death took its time.

  I distracted myself by inspecting what was left of the Romanian artillery. The area looked as if God Himself had driven an angry fist into the land several times over. Craters marred the rise, and both guns and trucks were overturned and shattered. The only signs of life I could see were two men scrambling down the hill. “Sparrow, they’re done for. I suggest moving on.”

  “Copy,” Sparrow Leader replied. “Moving to secondary targets now.”

  Klara and I followed the Il-2s as they changed course. Our next target was a direct-support fuel depot. Prior recon had shown it had a pair of field guns near the fuel tanks. The twin 23mm cannons each Il-2 sported would make short work of such a soft target. With no German air to protect them, I pitied those on the ground as much as I hated their invasion.

  “Little Boar, this is Stag. Luftwaffe is incoming from the south.”

  I cursed under my breath for foolishly thinking they’d never show up. They’d never leave us unchallenged, no matter how thinly spread they were.

  “I don’t see them,” Klara said with a nervous edge.

  “Sparrow, we’re climbing to fifteen hundred meters, still escorting,” I said as my plane responded to my desires. “Recommend not sticking around longer than we must.”

  “I agree, Little Boar. We’ll dump and run.”

  I soon found the road we were to follow to the southeast. The depot was no more than
a couple of minutes away. As the five of us sped toward our target, my eyes went back to the sky. It didn’t take long to spot the yellow-nosed 109 shooting across the landscape.

  “Vis on a Messer low, one o’clock,” I announced to the others. “He’s headed straight for us.”

  “Only one?” Klara said. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  Her thoughts rang true, and I held off from intercepting his attack. “You’re right. He’s got to be bait.”

  “He’ll be on us before we reach the target,” Sparrow Leader said. “Deal with him one way or the other.”

  I nodded, knowing his words were as true as Klara’s. The German at this point was a few of kilometers away, which would put him in a firing position in no time at all. With no other options, I rolled right and throttled up, praying the jaws of whatever trap I was about to fly into weren’t as bad as I feared. “Klara, stay with the others. Look for his wingman.”

  In seconds, the distance between me and the 109 closed to a few hundred meters. My thumbs mashed the triggers, but it was a hair too late. The German fighter cut left and pulled up, dodging my fire. I followed with my own climb, thinking to catch him before he brought his plane to bear on me, but when I was at the peak of my climb, I found his nose pointed square at my plane.

  Flames erupted from his guns. Tracers danced around my plane before skipping off my canopy and leaving large cracks across its top.

  I kicked the rudder pedals, sliding my plane out of the line of fire and rolled it at the same time so I could keep my eyes on my adversary. The muscles in my neck burned with fire due to a combination of me twisting in my seat and fighting high-G maneuvers at the same time. That pain was only second to the massive amount ripping through my arm. I didn’t dare rest, however. If I did, I knew I’d be dead.

  “Assist?” Klara asked.

  “Negative,” I replied. “Keep those Il-2s safe.”

  The German and I danced in the air. Each step we took was a lethal one should the other miss a beat. We ended up on course for another head-to-head pass, but this time when I rolled the plane upright, I slammed the stick forward and dove my plane to slip under his aim.

  My body lifted in the seat and blood rushed to my head, causing my vision to redden. My plane slid under his, and as I chopped the throttle to pull up and stick on his tail, I saw the bright yellow eight painted on his plane. Once again Rademacher and I fought, and once again, his plane sported several more victories since last we’d met.

  To my surprise, Rademacher didn’t bring his plane around to re-engage. It only took a heartbeat to understand why. Our brief encounter had put him on the tail of Sparrow flight with me heading in the opposite direction. Though I circled my fighter as hard as I could without bleeding off all of my speed, I’d never catch him before he engaged Klara and the Il-2s.

  “Klara, it’s Rademacher. You’re all that’s between him and our boys.”

  Klara’s fighter went vertical, climbing far above the Il-2s. Though she reacted quickly, her voice had concern. “Nadya, I still don’t see his wingman.”

  “We’ll deal with him when he comes.”

  Klara flipped her plane and dove toward the German ace. The maneuver set her up for a perfect attack, but before she fired, he side-slipped before issuing a perfect barrel roll, throwing her aim and forcing her to overshoot.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” she shouted on the radio. “I should’ve had him!”

  “Don’t lose heart. We’ll get him,” I said, trying to sound hopeful.

  I leaned forward in the cockpit, trying to make Rademacher’s plane seem larger in my gun sight than it really was. At this point, his plane looked like the size of my pinky. I’d never land a shot on him from that range.

  The Il-2s broke formation. Two turned left with the other going right. At first I thought it was because Rademacher was about to take them out, but then I saw a second 109 diving in from the clouds. It raked the solitary Il-2 with a vicious barrage of fire before veering off.

  “Status?” Sparrow Leader called out.

  “Leaking fuel. Gunner is hit,” came the reply. “I’m not sure I can stay.”

  “Understood. Break and return home.”

  Sparrow Three cut a fast, low turn toward me and we passed by in seconds. As we did, I gave the pilot a quick salute, hoping it would ease his worries, but I don’t think he saw it. Ahead, the remaining two Il-2s swung back on course while Klara and Rademacher entered their own dance together.

  “Nadya, I’ll be fine,” she said, her voice wavering. “Get the other 109.”

  She must have known as much as I did she hadn’t a prayer. Worse, Rademacher’s wingman was circling over the Il-2s and was about to re-engage. Time ground to a halt when I realized I had a choice. I could try and save Klara, or I could try and save the Il-2s. I couldn’t do both. I might not be able to do either.

  “Hang on, Klara,” I said, angling my plane toward her. “I’m coming.”

  “No. Finish the mission. Save the others.”

  “I give the orders, not you,” I barked. There was no way in hell I was losing another friend, let alone my love. “We’ll save them together.”

  I sped on, studying the dogfight as it unfolded, trying to feel what Klara and Rademacher were thinking. When I got within a few hundred meters, I chopped the throttle and pushed the nose down, anticipating the German ace’s next maneuver.

  My instincts proved true, and Rademacher slipped under Klara and dead in my sights. I hammered the triggers and peppered his wing. Not as much debris flew as I’d hoped, but it was a start.

  “Little Boar, we need assistance!” Sparrow Leader called.

  “Finish him, Klara,” I said, banking my plane away and hoping the odds now favored her.

  “Working on it,” she replied.

  My plane dove to where the two Il-2s weaved back and forth in an effort to dodge the 109’s aim. Between their maneuvers and their rear gunners sending a lot of gunfire up into the air, the German pilot attacking them appeared to be having a lot of trouble lining up a good shot. Maybe we’d somehow all come home after all.

  I caught up to them after a few seconds. When the Messer filled the ring on my gun sight, I sent a stream of death toward him. Not a single round found its mark, but the German jinked a hard right. His sharp maneuver bled speed, and I easily made the high-G yoyo to compensate and fired again.

  A portion of his right wing sheared off along with his aileron on that side. The plane rolled right and barely pulled out of a dive into the ground. The Messer shuddered back and forth. I’m certain the pilot was doing all he could to keep the fighter aloft. I saddled up behind him and fired off another long burst. The plane went down in a flaming heap.

  Instead of a rise of elation at the kill, I felt a rise of bile and my soul wither. I’d executed someone who was no longer a threat. I could have let him go. I should have. Then I wondered what was wrong with me. Plenty of people had gotten over their issues about killing others, especially when it was the enemy. Then again, I wondered if that was something to even strive for. Maybe it was good for the soul, in a strange way, to always be revolted by such a thing.

  “You’re clear,” I said, turning back to the Il-2s and clearing my eyes.

  “Good kill,” Sparrow Leader said. “We’ll take it from here. Go send that other one straight to Hell.”

  I snapped my head around and saw Klara and Rademacher locked in rolling scissors a few kilometers away. Both planes were streaming at this point, which meant Rademacher had managed to score some hits on her. Hopefully, I could enter the fray before it was too late and the two of us could bring him down.

  “Nadya,” Klara said as I raced toward her. “He’s on me tight.”

  My hands shook, but I tried to sound strong for her sake. “You’re doing great. Keep moving.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

  “As long as you need to.”

  “You’re supposed to bring me home.”
>
  I cringed at the desperation in her voice. “I will. Few more seconds. I promise.”

  My hands tightened on the stick. Pain laced my arm and fueled my determination. But they were still a thousand meters from my position, and I could do nothing but watch their duel. God, why couldn’t this plane go any faster?

  Rademacher won their contest before I got in range. He hammered Klara’s fighter, and her plane flipped upside down and went into a steep dive, streaming fuel, coolant and bits of metal. Rademacher didn’t follow. Instead, he hooked left, keeping me from getting a shot.

  “Klara, what’s your status?” I asked as I followed my adversary. Despite the damage to his plane, it was all I could do to keep from overshooting as he threw my aim.

  “Little shaken,” she said. “I’m not sure how long this plane will last.”

  “Return to base. That’s an order.”

  “A wingman does not leave her wing leader.”

  I hit the side of the cockpit with my fist, knowing arguing was useless. The only way we were both going home was to bring Rademacher down before her plane gave out or he blew us out of the sky.

  Sweat built on my forehead and neck as Rademacher and I jockeyed for position. I took potshots here and there, but he seemed to slip away from my sights at the last moment every time. My burning hand made it difficult to compensate for his sudden movements.

  I eased off the trigger as we went into a rolling dive. I knew my guns were running low on ammo, and I couldn’t afford to miss anymore. When we pulled out of it, Rademacher was back on Klara’s tail.

  The fight wore on for what felt like hours. More than once I thought Klara had cleared Rademacher from her tail, only to realize he’d not only thwarted my aim, but he’d put himself into a better position to shoot her down.

  “You’ve got to end this, Nadya,” she said, her voice cracking. “My engine is overheating.”

  White mist no longer poured from her plane. Her coolant was gone, and the life of her engine could be measured in seconds. With no time, no options, and a thread of hope to cling to, I gave the one order I could think of. “Klara, lose some altitude and hammerhead. I can come around up top when you two stall.”