by JT Lawrence
On my arrival, my hair was cropped short, and I was given an oversized man's uniform to wear. I punctured a new hole in the belt with a sharp screwdriver from the workshop and wrapped the leather tightly around my waist, so it didn't look too bad, and tucked the photograph of Vladik into my breast pocket. Some of the other pilots used their navigation pencils to colour their lips, but I didn't care too much about that. There’d be plenty of time for pretty things once we had defeated the pigdogs. I would wear dresses again, and makeup, and lie in Vladik’s arms all day. But dacha would only happen once the war was over and Mother Russia was ours again.
I didn’t mind the masculine uniforms or unflattering hairstyle. I didn’t care about the uncomfortable bed or bland food, or the way we’d have to wash in cold water when there was no fuel available to heat it. What did shock me was seeing the squadron’s planes for the first time.
I didn’t know anything about aviation, but even a fool could see the planes were nothing but old, obsolete crop-dusters.
“Are you joking?” I said to Kirochka, a broad-shouldered woman whose job it was to induct the new trainees. She called me pochemuchka because I asked so many questions.
She laughed and slapped her hands on her generous hips. “Not joking,” she replied, and then her smile disappeared. They were Polikarpov Po-2 biplanes, made of old plywood and canvas, and never meant for combat. They had neither radios nor radars, yet they were only ever flown at night.
“Don’t get hit by a tracer bullet,” said Kirochka, her face now solemn. I assumed it would result in the whole aircraft igniting like the paper planes they resembled. Some were decorated with flowers, and I couldn’t help thinking that although it looked pretty, they reminded me of cheap caskets.
The biplanes had many drawbacks. Because they were so light, they could only carry the weight of two bombs, which meant that the pilots had to fly back to reload at least a dozen times during the night raids, sometimes as many as eighteen. It also meant there was no space for guns or parachutes. Seeing the planes made me nervous, but I kept reminding myself that these women were going out night after night on successful missions and coming back alive. If they could do it, so could I. Kirochka squeezed my shoulder as she related the benefits of the small planes. While it was true that a mere bullet could cause you to explode in mid-air and give the pigdogs a fancy pyrotechnic show while you plummeted to the ground like a hell comet, there were also numerous benefits to having such a small, flimsy aircraft.
"Size isn't everything," she said, winking at me.
It turned out that the crop-dusters were too small to be detected by the enemy’s radars, and the sluggish flying speed afforded them more agility than the German fighter planes. Their strategy of cutting their engines as they approached the target meant the aviatrixes could approach in silence, under the cover of darkness, and deliver their payload without being detected. Their invisibility and silence was a deadly combination. By the time I joined the 588th night bomber regiment they had already undertaken 24,000 missions and dropped 16,000 tons of bombs on German targets. They were helping to turn the tide of World War II.
Two months after I began training, Kirochka arrived in the workshop while I was elbow-deep in grease, working on a stalled engine.
“Go to your dorm. Get some rest. You’ll be going on your first raid tonight.”
My mouth became instantly dry, and the photograph of Vladik seemed to burn in my pocket.
“Tonight?” I asked. I hadn’t been there as long as some other young women.
“You’re ready,” she said.
I didn’t feel ready, but the more the picture in my breast pocket burned, the braver I got. I was there to stop the war and spare Vladik’s life. I was there for the fight, so best I began fighting.
I lay on the rough grey blanket on my bunk, but there was no chance of sleep as my stomach cramped with fear. When I heard Sebrova's call to rally for the evening's briefing, I started sweating and wanted to tell Kirochka that I had decided I wasn’t ready.
I knew what she would say.
You’ll never feel ready, Mariya. No one ever feels ready to fly, sightless, into the night sky. Avos’.
Avos’ is the ingrained Russian concept of blind trust in sheer luck.
Think about your home town.
Blood running red in the gutters. Powder snow. Fallen statues.
Think of your beloved fiancé, she’d say. It’s how well you live that makes a difference, not how long.
I hurried to the toilet and got there just in time to not soil my ill-fitting second-hand uniform.
Who had worn this uniform before? I wondered. Who had died in it?
I got to Sebrova's briefing a few minutes late but was not scolded. Kirochka handed me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully. A large map was laid out in the centre, with coins marking that night’s targets; the kopeks and rubles weighted the map down as the corners flapped in the early evening breeze. The sun was beginning to set, and there was ruby-coloured light on the other aviatrixes’ anxious faces.
Sebrova looked at me. “We have a problem.”
When it was dark enough to begin, I was trembling all over. I lifted my helmet above my head and pushed it on, tying the clasp tightly beneath my chin. I felt as if I was shaking everywhere, inside and out.
Kirochka must have seen the look of utter dread on my face because she gave me a stern look and said, "Remember why we are doing this, pochemuchka.”
She had lost a brother in a Nazi invasion. I nodded at her but didn't trust myself to speak. The photo in my pocket continued to burn. I would save Vlad, and we'd get married and have children. As my late mother used to say, one generation plants the trees, the next gets the shade. It was an old Russian proverb. By fighting against the violent invasion of our land, I was planting trees for Vladik’s and my children, and our grandchildren.
We climbed into the plane, and again I was reminded of how it looked like a coffin with wings. Kirochka would do the flying, and I was to navigate with my map and compass, as I had been taught. The engine roared to life, and she looked back at me, asking if I was okay. I had no blood left in my face, and I was sure I looked like a ghost. Terrified, I nodded. We started rumbling down the strip, and soon the plane lifted off the ground. It felt as if my stomach had been left behind on the tarred gravel. Plunging ahead into the black sky towards the enemy was a terror rivalled only by the day the Nazis had razed my home. Back then I was powerless, but now I was in a plane carrying two bombs in its belly.
Because it was an open cockpit, our faces were almost immediately frozen by the rushing wind. I couldn’t imagine being that cold for a whole flight, never mind a dozen of them. It was no wonder some of the pilots would complain of frostbite stinging their skin. My nerves frayed further and further the closer we got to enemy territory, like the sparkling fuse of dynamite. Before aviation training, I was brave with my words, calling Nazis poshlost’ pigdogs and spitting on the ground, but now my courage had deserted me, and the map shook in my hands.
We approached the border. My stomach clenched. Sebrova, the pilot who briefed us, had explained how the Germans had just implemented rings of powerful searchlights around likely targets. The Night Witches had always had the advantage of approaching unseen and unheard, but that was about to change.
We flew in a formation of three, piloted by Kirochka, Sebrova, and Yuliya. Our first target was a bridge crossing, where we saw the dreaded beams of light searching the ink stain sky. We were so close to the ground that I knew if we were sighted, they'd incinerate us on the spot. The other two planes—Sebrova's and Yuliya's—hurtled in front of us as we all headed directly toward the roving spotlights. As soon they were sighted, the gunfire began, which was a signal for Sebrova and Yuliya to fly in opposite directions and zig-zag to avoid the bullets. While the lights and the guns aimed at the decoys, Kirochka cut our engine. We stole silently into the dark space just above the target and deployed our bombs. There was a massive explosio
n on the ground, a deafening blast, rumbling and hot. As Kirochka pulled up to avoid the heatwaves and debris, I felt overcome with a breathtaking euphoria. Our plan had worked, the crossing was destroyed, and we had survived. The flight of the Night Witches’ broom was the last thing those pigdogs had heard before they were blown to bits, and the bridge was nothing but a dead man’s memory.
We used the same strategy six times over until we had delivered all three planes' payloads. I was feeling exhilarated as we headed back to base to reload. Every Nazi we killed, every cold-blooded German soldier we stopped by demolishing a road or railway was one less soldier who could hurt Vladik. We flew sixteen successful missions that night, while the picture of my lover in my breast pocket kept me from freezing. I felt the black sky billowing inside my body, and it made me feel light, so light that sometimes it felt like I didn’t have a body at all, that my spirit was flying above the plane.
On the way back to our final landing, I heard Kirochka cry out. My elation vanished as I spotted what had made her exclaim. A dozen or more Luftwaffe planes were heading straight towards us. Three flimsy gimcrack crop dusters piloted by exhausted women versus a flight of sophisticated Heinkel Eagle-Owl night fighters. Kirochka had to stick her head out from behind the icy windshield to get a clear view of them. The next thing I knew, my spirit shot straight back into my body as the German pilots blasted us with everything they had. We sailed through a wall of enemy fire, and I could feel and smell the bullets as they tore past us. Kirochka dipped, taking advantage of the biplane’s agility, and we were able to dodge the deluge of shells that now cracked above us. I was too afraid to peer back at Sebrova and Yuliya, but soon they caught up with us, and we all cheered madly as we readied to land.
By the time I saw the wing was on fire, it was too late. One of the enemy's bullets had clipped it, and the plywood was alight, its flame fed by the rushing air around us. I unclipped my safety harness easily, but taking off my tight leather belt with frozen fingers took forever. I watched the fire hungrily inch up the wing towards us and the fuel tank with a feeling of panic and futility. Finally, I was able to wrench the belt off, and then my jacket. I crawled over to the burning wing, the bitterly cold wind slicing into my body as I left the shelter of the cockpit. I screamed as I almost got blown off. Gripping the wing harder, clutching it with all the strength I had, I tried again to creep towards the fire. This time I reached it and used my jacket to swat the flames. I swore in the dirtiest Russian I knew when the fire refused to die.
I went out further, losing my grip again, and almost tumbling off. I momentarily lost my sanity and imagined the fire was a Nazi creeping toward me. I beat him with my heavy jacket, I hit and punched him, no longer caring if I lived or died. I went berserk, screaming and pounding until the imaginary Nazi fell off the wing, and the fire was out. I dragged my body back into the pit, debilitated and brittle from the biting cold, and pulled my scorched jacket back on. There was no time to celebrate. I had stopped the fire from reaching the fuel tank, but the damage was done. The plane listed sideways and began to drop. Oh, I thought, Kirochka will have to make an emergency landing. That was okay, we all knew how to do that, and she was one of the best pilots in the squadron. But then I realised that you can’t make an emergency landing with one wing. You can’t do anything with one wing except crash. I scrambled to put my safety belt on again and pulled my jacket around my body so that I could feel Vladik’s face against my breast. Sebrova and Yuliya—who had been flying slowly beside our doomed aircraft—saluted Kirochka, and she returned the gesture. I was glad that I couldn’t see the expression on her face.
We crashed just a few miles from our air base. Kirochka’s expertise meant we made it as close to base as we could. Her knowledge of the land ensured we found the softest spot to go down, and just as the sun peeked from behind the horizon, we slammed into a golden field of wheat. When I regained consciousness, the sun was slightly higher in the sky, and the breeze made the swaying grain so beautiful I thought I must be in heaven. But as the pain flooded my body I understood I was very much alive. Every bone felt broken, but I was able to move, so I assumed they weren’t. When I looked down, my body was bright with blood. I thought I was dying, then saw that it was coming from my nose, which had smashed into the back of Kirochka’s seat as we had crashed.
“Kirochka!” I shouted, my voice came out sounding strangled. “Kirochka! We made it!”
My relief energised me enough to climb out of my seat and get to the woman whose intelligence and expertise had saved our lives.
I leaned against her door and took her by the shoulder, as she had so often done to me. When she looked at me, I could see the sunrise and golden fields reflected in her eyes.
“Kirochka!” I was still unable to believe we had survived.
“Look at you,” she said. I could see she wanted to laugh but was in too much pain. She made an effort to swallow and then told me to take off my helmet. I didn’t understand why, but I obeyed. The helmet was studded with bullets, as was the bloodstained map in my seat. I took a step back; the fuselage was riddled with holes. It was nothing less than a miracle that we were still breathing. I looked in my scorched breast pocket for the photo of Vlad, but it was gone. It must have blown away while I was putting out the fire. There was an immediate sense of loss, but also of joy, because despite all odds, I would live to fight another day, and fight I would. Not only had I survived, but I had been reborn as a real soldier, ready to practise the deadly precision Kirochka had taught me. I would take out a Nazi for every bullet hole in the plane, and every stud in my helmet, and then I’d take out double that, then triple.
The scent of the burnt fabric of my uniform reached me, and I imagined the picture of my beloved floating into the cold and hungry night sky. It was at that moment I tumbled to the realisation that Vladik was dead. How else did I dodge the wall of fire without getting hit by even one bullet? Vladik was dead, and his spirit had enfolded me; protected me.
I was too shocked to sob.
Kirochka made a burbling sound, so I stepped towards her again. I could hear the military vehicle buzzing in the distance, driving in our direction to pick us up and take us back to our base. I looked forward to food and sleep.
Kirochka looked pointedly at the scarred helmet in my hand. “My dear Mariya,” she said, smiling at me. “You will live long.”
I glanced again at my helmet, then my eyes travelled to her torso, which I saw was bleeding profusely. A sob caught in my throat. My first instinct was to shout No! And to put pressure on the wounds to stem the flow, but then I understood the damage was too dire, and that Kirochka was taking what would be her last breaths. I wanted them to be peaceful, not panicked.
Nothing disappears, she used to say to me. It only changes.
Mariya Oktyabrskaya, the Fighting Girlfriend.
Vladik.
Kirochka.
These were the sturdy shoulders on which I would stand and do battle.
Kirochka's body collapsed back into her seat. I leaned in and hugged her, thanking her as the flaxen field swayed around us. The sky turned a silvery blue. As she shuddered to stillness, I thought that perhaps she would see her brother again.
Sticky Fingers
Volume 5
Contents
1. Good Riddance
2. The Generation of Lost Girls
3. An Eye for an Eye
4. Drive This Way for Death
5. The Lucky Sickness
6. The Baron
7. Slashpurse
8. Little Sparrow
9. The Family Romance of Neurotics
10. Sisters
11. Red Scribble
12. In the Hands of God
1
Good Riddance
Shengdu-occupied Akeratu, 2054
Frankie cycled leisurely along the path through the midnight meadow. The air was cool on her face, and the moonlight was milky through the eternal smog that squatted over Silok, in western Akeratu
. Soon the field of grey flowers was behind her, and she saw the outskirts of town. Stuttering silhouettes of the glass recycling factory, the Dairytech shop, the burned carcass of the old prison, its black ribs reaching for the sky. Before she approached the flickering streetlights, she saw Erica and slowed down. You’d be forgiven for thinking they were twins; two young girls wearing heavy coats, and breathing masks over their red lipstick, riding bikes with baskets. They squeezed their brakes and stopped beside one another, cheeks aflame against the chill of the night swirl. Erica steadied her bicycle, putting her boots on the ground, then reached into her pocket. She gave Frankie a cigarette, which the girl tucked behind her ear. With a last backwards glance, Erica placed her feet back on the pedals, and they both continued on their separate ways.
Frankie wheeled slowly into town; she was in no hurry. The Six Seasons restaurant stayed open well past dinner time. She found herself humming the resistance song—which she did when she was afraid—and immediately scolded herself and stopped.
Golden light and drunken laughter spilled out of the cracks in the double-glazed windows of the restaurant. The warm hub was incongruent against the backdrop of destruction. How do people keep living in a place like this? Working, eating, sleeping; wearing the masks that stop the acid from eating your lungs. When things before had begun to look so promising, who would have thought this would be the future? Of course, it's not like this everywhere. Across the Fiume River, the trees are still alive, and the sky is blue. The water is sweet. That's what they say, anyway; that's the whisper on the breeze. Frankie leaned her bike up against the side of the restaurant that smelled of soldiers' piss. It was darker there, and less likely to be stolen.