Yet finally, after the hundredth photograph of smiling soldiers boarding troop trains, the Press Department and the Aviation Committee approved her application to rejoin the women’s regiments.
On the second of May, Alex caught the train back to Engels.
*
Marina Raskova was still immaculately uniformed and combed, but her face was thinner.
“I’m afraid you’ve come too late,” she said, admitting Alex into her office. “Two of our three regiments have been deployed to their respective airfields. My own regiment is still in training, learning to fly the new aircraft, and frankly, I’d rather not have the Pe-2 appear in photos. They’re new and their design is still classified. I can’t let you anywhere near them with a camera.”
Alex stood awkwardly, her cameras dangling from her shoulder, and absorbed the bad news. “Would I be able to photograph the women who’ve been deployed, then? I think the Kremlin might approve the image of Soviet women in action.”
Raskova frowned. “You mean the fighter pilots? I can’t imagine that Major Kazar would permit you to invade her territory.”
Alex’s heart sank. She searched her memory for arguments. If the promise of propaganda wasn’t enough, she had nothing. Unconsciously, she took a step back.
“She can visit the 588th,” someone said. Alex turned to see the figure who’d just come in behind her. Damn, what was her name again? Borodin? Bezinsky? B…
“Major…Bershanskaya,” she exclaimed. Shaking hands with the sullen and virile woman, she summoned all the warmth and sincerity she could manage.
“The 588th? That’s the night bombers, isn’t it? Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. When, and…uh…where can I join you?” Alex made a conscious effort not to show too much exuberance.
“If you’re prepared to travel right now to the south of Russia, wait in hangar B across the field. The 588th airfield is near Stavropol. I’ll check the duty roster and see who’s still at Engels who can give you a ride.”
“Oh, thank you, Major. I promise—” But the major had already walked away.
Alex turned to Major Raskova, who was finally smiling. “I’m happy we could find a solution for you,” she said, and offered her hand. Her grip was firm, her fingers long and graceful, and Alex remembered hearing that she played classical piano. So much for her earlier notion of coarse women pilots.
She began the trek across the airfield, gazing up at the spring sky. Good weather for flying, she noted, and tried to remember where the hell Stavropol was.
When she reached the hangar, the men working ignored her, so she stood patiently, staring out at the bare horizon. After some fifteen minutes, a figure approached from the distance. Small, female. She wondered if it was one of the pilots she’d met three months before. The figure came closer and took on a face.
A lovely face, with blond ringlets at her forehead and behind her ears. Alex felt the grin spread across her face. “Lilya Drachenko, is that you?”
“You remembered my name?”
“Of course I do. And your mechanic was Inna, wasn’t she?” Alex fell into step with her as they walked onto the field.
“Inna Portnikova. Yes. She’ll be flattered you remembered her. By the way, how is it that an American speaks such good Russian?”
“A long story. But basically, my parents were Russian immigrants. From St. Petersburg. Oh, sorry. Leningrad.”
“When did they leave?”
“Around 1918.”
“Anti-Bolsheviks, then. Were you born here?”
The conversation was heading in a dangerous direction. It was certainly not helpful for her Communist host to know she’d been raised anti-Communist, but she was unwilling to lie. “Yes. As I said, in Saint Petersburg. Why they left, I don’t know, really. I was a small child and only remember growing up in New York. Can we talk about you and your plane?”
They stopped at one of the biplanes. “Yes, of course we can. Have you flown in this kind of craft before?” Lilya looked directly at her, and Alex felt the same confusion she’d experienced at their first meeting. Why was that?
“Nothing as…um…exposed as that. I piloted something called the Grumman Goose. A long time ago.”
“Grumman Goose.” Lilya repeated the name in English. “How did it fly?” She stepped up on the wing.
“It was sort of a flying boat, with wings over the cockpit and two engines. Amphibious. Roomy interior, too. Lots of fun to fly.”
“Why did you stop and become a journalist?” Lilya stared at her again, throwing her off her train of thought.
“Studies took over. I had to make a living. But I never forgot the thrill.”
“No. One never does. So, up we go.” Lilya lifted her up by the elbow and helped her into the rear cockpit. Alex stowed her pack and camera carriers under her legs and strapped on the safety harness. Anticipating the icy wind, she pulled her silk polka-dot scarf out from under her uniform and rewrapped it high on her neck.
“Pretty scarf,” Lilya said.
“Thank you. It’s turned out to be useful.”
“You’ll need cover on your head, too.” Lilya handed her a leather flight helmet and she slipped it on. It fit nicely and brought back pleasant memories.
“This is the navigator’s cockpit and also has a set of controls, but it’s best if you leave that to me.”
Alex laughed. “What if we have a difference of opinion on where to fly? Say, you want to bank one way and I want to bank the other.”
Lilya laughed back. “Oh, that won’t be a problem. I’m the one with the gun.”
“Good point. But seriously, how do we talk during the flight? Is there an internal radio?”
Lilya swung a leg over the side and dropped down into the pilot’s seat. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Sorry, no radio. No ground communication either.”
“That’s a little scary. How do you navigate at night?”
“It’s not hard when there’s a moon. The Volga reflects the moonlight, but otherwise, we measure the distances on a map and calculate flight time to the target and back. Then it’s just compass and stopwatch.”
“Unbelievable. And how does the navigator talk to you? She just shouts at you from behind?”
“No, she talks into the hose hanging by your shoulder. If you want to say something to me, tap me on the shoulder and speak into the tube.” The engine began a throaty clattering and they taxied some distance to the runway. They picked up speed quickly, and in just a few minutes they were airborne and over the Volga.
The bite of the wind on her face was unpleasant, so she pulled her collar and scarf as high as possible, then concentrated on the landscape below.
The plane rocked slightly in the wind, and Alex remembered the sensation of piloting a light craft. She wondered how similar the old U-2 was to the Grumman and how quickly she could learn to fly it.
She lifted the communication hose from its hook and spoke into it. “It’s a bit windy. Could you shut the window?” It was an old joke but would break the ice.
Lilya laughed. “This little breeze is nothing. You should feel it at higher altitudes at night, on your sixth and seventh trip. Even with a thick flight suit, you shiver.”
“You have to fly seven times in one night?”
“We fly all night long, one after another, and rest only as long as it takes to re-arm the plane. In winter, the sorties are endless.”
“My God. I just can’t imagine it. No defensive weapons.”
“The plane can take a lot of bullet holes and still fly, that’s the good thing. But it’s also flammable, and tracer bullets can set it afire. It’s not a nice way to die.”
Alex shuddered. “Can you bail out? Oh, wait. You don’t have a parachute.” Her hand went spontaneously to her chest. “Um, neither do I. That’s unnerving.”
“The plane itself is supposed to be the parachute, since you can land it almost anywhere. If it doesn’t burn up, that is.”
“How long did it take you
to learn to fly this thing?”
Lilya turned back for a moment, revealing a handsome profile. “Not long at all. I learned when I was quite young at the government flying club. After that, the U-2 seemed quite simple. Why do you ask? Do you want to learn?”
“That could be fun. Who could teach me, and where?”
“I’ll teach you. Right now? You’ve got controls in front of you. If you could fly your Grumman, you can fly this old crate.”
“If you’re sure…I don’t want to kill us.”
“We’re high enough now that you probably can’t. Look at the instrument panel. The four dials at the top are the important ones: heading, airspeed, altimeter, attitude.
“Yes, I recognize all of them.” Alex took hold of the control column. “I’m guessing the stick moves the ailerons and governs the roll and pitch, right?” She moved it slightly and the plane banked to the left. “Ah, yes.”
She glanced down at her feet. “The rudder pedals control the yaw…” She touched it lightly and the plane changed its heading by a few degrees. “This, of course, is the throttle.” A faint tug caused the plane to lift slightly. “Well, I guess I can fly this thing.” She banked again to the left, then to the right, increased and decreased speed, and, when she had sufficient confidence, she made a small swoop and dive. “This is fun. I could do this till the cows come home.”
“The cows? Do you have cows?”
“Sorry. I was translating an English expression. I must remember not to do that.”
“I’d like to learn English,” Lilya said brightly, as she took over the controls. “I could talk to the Americans when we meet them.”
“What would you talk about?”
“Oh, everything. Clothes, food, films. Your culture fascinates me. The cowboys, the automobiles, the Coca-Cola.”
“Is that what you think we are? I wish I had the time to tell you more about us. We have as many cultures as the Soviet Union.”
“Well, Stavropol is another three hours, with a refueling at Stalingrad. We’ve plenty of time to talk.”
“What would you like to discuss? Capitalism? Cowboys?”
“Can we talk about love?”
“Love?” Alex laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean how you do that in America. How old are you when you get married?”
Alex thought for a moment. “All ages, really. But young men usually marry when they have a job. Of course, right now most of them are in the military, just like here.”
“What about the girls?”
“That depends. Some girls marry around eighteen or nineteen. Others stay in school and marry around twenty or twenty-one.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.” The plane banked slightly, shifting the stream of wind on her face.
“And are you married? Do you have someone that you love?”
An intimate question coming, disembodied, out of a rubber hose. If Alex’s brow hadn’t been frozen by the wind, she would have furrowed it. “Why aren’t you married?”
“Oh.” Lilya was silent for a moment. “I never met anyone I loved. And then the war came.”
Alex thought of Terry, his cajoling or extorting her for sex, and realized she didn’t miss him a bit. “The same for me. I don’t love anyone that much.”
“Well, I love Inna and Katia, of course, but—OH!”
A stream of projectiles struck diagonally through the left wings and passed under the fuselage. Alex ducked instinctively.
“Messerschmitt.” Lilya sent the plane into a steep dive, and the rapid change in air pressure caused Alex’s ears and sinuses to ache. She held her nose and blew, equalizing the pressure, then gripped the sides of the cockpit as they lurched and banked, trying to evade the attacker.
They reversed direction, a maneuver that bought them a little time, as the high-speed Messerschmitt overshot them and had to swing back. They dropped farther and the altimeter in front of her swung to seven hundred meters, then five, two, then one. The wind whistling through the struts of the shuddering plane and the screaming of the engine were deafening. The sparsely wooded ground below rushed up to meet them, and she gripped the sides of the cockpit, certain they would crash.
The altimeter needle trembled just under 20 meters as they wove between the trees along the curves of a winding creek bed, the only avenue where their wings wouldn’t be ripped off. Alex stared, unblinking, at the banks and bushes she could almost touch, terrified their wheels would catch on them.
She didn’t dare make a sound, for fear of distracting Lilya from the delicate maneuvers, and stifled a scream each time a wingtip came within inches of some obstacle.
Finally, mercifully, the streambed widened, an opening appeared, and Lilya took them into a steep curve upward. Alex scanned the sky, and it was empty. The Messerschmitt had given up the chase.
She dropped back against her seat and lifted the talking tube to her mouth. “Jesus H. Christ,” she breathed.
In the front cockpit, Lilya reached for her tube. “No.” She laughed. “Lilya Grigorevna Drachenko.”
Alex giggled, a nervous, over-excited, relieved-to-be-alive sound. “You are…amazing.”
CHAPTER TEN
May 1942
Air Base near Stavropol
“Here we are,” Lilya announced as they touched down in the semi-darkness and bumped along uneven ground.
Alex peered over the side of her cockpit, puzzled and slightly alarmed. The light that remained from the sun hovering on the horizon revealed the dark forms of planes lined up some distance away, but otherwise she could make out nothing to suggest an airport. No buildings, no tower, no runway. The whole dusky landscape was grim and desolate.
She was sorry the six-hour flight was over. They’d told each other their stories, as much as one would tell a stranger, and she felt a closeness to her new comrade. She chuckled inwardly at the word.
Lilya stood up in her cockpit and faced toward the back, kneeling on the pilot’s narrow seat. “It’s been nice talking to you.”
“For me, too.” Impulsively, Alex undid the silk at her throat. “You admired my scarf and I’d like to give it to you. It’s from a store in New York.” She pressed it awkwardly into Lilya’s hand.
“Really? Oh, I couldn’t…I mean…thank you. I’d love to have it. It’s not military issue, so I’ll have to wear it under my uniform, but when I’m in the air, I can let it show.” She brushed it against her cheek.
“Here, take mine in exchange. It’s a crude thing, made out of parachute silk, so you can consider it a gift from the 588th regiment.” She untied the scarf and handed it to Alex, just as another woman arrived beside the plane.
“What’s keeping you?” she called up to them.
“Oh, sorry. Am I on the duty roster tonight, or should I take it off the field?”
“Of course you’re on duty tonight. Right after me. We’re four and five. But Inna has to move you.”
Lilya signaled agreement, then added, “Katia, we have a guest. An American journalist who wants to write about us.”
Katia seem unimpressed. “You can show her around later, after the mission. Please get out of the plane so Inna can check the engine and move it to the refueling station.”
“All right. All right.” Lilya threw her leg over the side of the cockpit and jumped lightly off the wing. Alex first handed down her cameras and rucksack and, dropping to the ground, realized how muddy the field was. Each footfall sank into the soggy ground, and the wheels of the aircraft would have sunk too, were it not for the ingenious track they’d laid out.
It looked as if they’d taken apart a fence and laid the slats side by side in the field, creating a hard surface. The track was only twice the width of the plane, so the pilot would have to aim with precision to land on it by torchlight. A second fence-track ran parallel to it, presumably so planes could take off and land simultaneously. Other similar tracks spread out on both sides to enable the planes to leave the ma
in runway.
“Welcome,” Katia finally said. “Do you speak Russian?” she asked slowly, as if talking to a child.
“Yes, I do. You can speak normally.” She studied the one-woman welcoming committee. Katia was tall and imposing, her hair shorter than Lilya’s and combed back like a man’s. Alex had known a few women in New York who affected that style and it had become fashionable to call them “butch,” but in a military regiment, where women had to assume men’s roles and dress, she wasn’t sure if the term was useful. For the moment, she found the woman intimidating.
“Come on. We’ll take you to the bunker while the mechanics get the planes ready.” The two pilots started toward what looked like a hillock at the edge of the field, and Alex trudged after them, each foot making a sucking sound as she lifted it from the mud.
When they arrived at the hillock, the tarp hanging over one end of it indicated it was a shelter. Katia pulled it aside, revealing the interior where kerosene lanterns presented a soft and pungent glow. It wasn’t what she’d expected.
Something between a bunker and a dugout, it was about five feet wide and twenty feet long. A row of planks on each side made up beds for perhaps sixteen women. Wooden panels laid against the sod walls didn’t disguise the fact that the shelter had been dug out of the raw ground. The roof was a rough V of cut bows covered with sod, penetrated at the center by the ventilating pipe from a primitive stove. The interior held the odors of wood smoke, damp earth, and human bodies.
Lilya stepped in behind her. “Girls, we have a visitor who’ll be sharing your quarters. This is Alex, an American journalist. Can we find a bunk for her?”
A short, cherubic woman stepped forward from the semi-darkness. “I remember you from Engels. I’m so glad you’re staying with us.”
“Inna, hello.” Alex embraced her lightly, then glanced around at the others and smiled.
“There’s an empty place over here, and a bedroll,” Inna said. “No pillow though. You’ll have to use your rucksack.”
Alex marched to her assigned plank, unrolled the thin mattress and blanket, and laid her rucksack at the head. Feeling all eyes on her, she sat down and patted the spot next to her. “Very cozy,” she said, eliciting a chuckle from Inna. “What do you do for a latrine?”
The Witch of Stalingrad Page 7