The Russian Resistance

by Simon Brading

The instructor stabbed her finger angrily at Baryshnikov, who was inspecting the damage to his aircraft with a fitter. Thankfully he hadn’t noticed that anything was going on and was out of hearing. ‘That bloody maniac led us straight into the Crimson Barons!’

  Abby frowned. ‘But the Wolfpack weren’t supposed to have been anywhere near combat.’

  ‘We weren’t, we were well behind our lines, but then we got this call over the radio in Russian and we changed course. I didn’t understand what had been said, so I thought it was just a routine call. I had no idea what he was doing until it was too late and we were too close to the Barons to break off. Then we just had to bloody get stuck into it with them. Drake was magnificent, he took down one of the blighters right away and drew away a couple who were on the new pilots, but then Gruber went after him...’

  Gwen had only been half-listening to Pemberton’s story as she searched the sky for Drake, expecting him to show up at any second, but at the mention of his name she turned to her. ‘Where’s Rudy?’

  Her quiet voice stopped Pemberton dead and everybody looked at her.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Tears started to well up in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she brushed them away angrily and shouted at the woman, demanding an answer. ‘Where is he!’

  Pemberton shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know; I lost track of him, but I’m pretty sure Gruber got him.’

  Gwen hid her face in her hands and sobbed. She didn’t feel it when first Kitty, then Scarlet wrapped their arms around her, everything was numb.

  Some part of her was aware, though, when Baryshnikov strutted over to the Misfits.

  The Russian was grinning. ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘Yes, we heard alright.’ Abby was gritting her teeth, barely able to keep from shouting at the man.

  Baryshnikov was oblivious, though, and he held up a couple of fingers. ‘Two! We got two!’ He gloated. ‘Even you Misfits only got one the other day.’

  ‘One.’ Abby said coldly. ‘You only got one. Aviator Lieutenant Drake got the other.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so, but he was under my command, so it counts for the Wolfpack. Where is he, by the way? I want to congratulate him.’ Baryshnikov looked around and only then seemed to notice that fully half of his squadron and one of the instructors wasn’t there. ‘Ah, I see,’ he nodded sagely, then shrugged. ‘I am sorry, of course, but these things happen.’

  Pemberton growled and the Misfits around her managed to grab her just in time before she could leap on the man.

  Nobody had thought to restrain Gwen, though.

  She closed the gap to the Russian in an instant and her fist shot out to hit him square on the nose, knocking him flat on his back, blood spraying onto the pristine white of the field.

  The snow chose that exact moment to stop and the sun poked its way through the clouds, a beam of light illuminating the scene as if it were a work of art.

  The silence went on for an almost unbearable length of time as Gwen stood over Baryshnikov’s unconscious form, panting with fury, but at the same time aghast with what she had done, the intense feeling of satisfaction competing with the knowledge that she had done something forbidden and unforgivable.

  She realised that she was still in a pugilist’s stance like she’d been shown in basic training and forced herself to relax, taking a deep, shuddering breath as she dropped her fist to her sides and unclenched them. She winced at a pain in her right hand and flexed it experimentally, but it wasn’t seriously damaged.

  ‘Gwen, to quarters!’

  Abby’s sharp voice had her spinning in place to face the pilots. There was disbelief and shock on most of their faces, but pride and satisfaction on those of several. However, it was the anger, disappointment and dismay on Abby’s face that made her stomach take a sickening tumble with the realisation that she was in a heck of a lot of trouble.

  ‘Now!’

  Without a word, Gwen started slowly towards the barracks building, unable to escape the feeling that she had been in the exact same position only months before and wondering if she would be able to escape her fate a second time.

  Gwen paced up and down the long barracks room, tortured by thoughts of Rudy. She saw him torn to pieces by machine gun fire, blood everywhere, saw him going down in a stricken aircraft desperately trying to open his stuck canopy, had visions of him bailing out, his glidewings iced shut and not opening, his body tumbling over and over as it fell towards the ground so far below...

  Every so often she would pause to look for him out of the windows. The clouds had broken up and the sun was shining weakly, the snow completely stopped. Conditions were perfect for flying, if a little cold, and if anyone had still been in the air they would have arrived long ago.

  Nobody came, though.

  ‘Gwen.’

  She hadn’t heard Abby come in and she whirled to face her. ‘Is there any news?’

  She thought that perhaps there had been a call over the radio to say that Rudy had put down in a field somewhere or bailed out, but any hopes that she’d had were dashed when Abby shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gwen sank down on the end of the nearest bed. She put her head into her hands and stared at the bare wooden floor, not really seeing it.

  Footsteps approached and then Abby’s boots entered her field of vision.

  ‘The penalty for striking a senior officer in the Muscovite armed forces is death.’

  It took a few seconds for the words to make their way through the haze of Gwen’s grief, but when they did it was as if she’d been sprayed by one of the hoses on the Arturo and her eyes shot up to meet Abby’s.

  ‘But...’

  Abby held her hand up, forestalling Gwen’s protest. ‘No need to start pleading for your life, though, you’ve been damn lucky; I’ve managed to strike a deal with Baryshnikov and he’s not going to press charges.’

  Gwen sagged in relief, her head returning to its cradle in her hands, but then she lifted it again and looked back at her commanding officer. ‘A deal? What does that mean?’ She swallowed. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything; I just told him he could keep the souvenir from the Baron I shot down - his ego was big enough for that to be adequate compensation for anything.’ She grinned. ‘In fact, he probably would have let you slap him around a few more times if I’d insisted on it, he was so keen to get his dirty mitts on it.’

  Gwen stared at her, astounded that she was going to get away with such a serious offence so easily.

  Abby read her expression and smiled wryly. ‘You’re getting into a bit of a habit of breaking the rules - this is the second time you’ve done something that should have you thrown out of the RAC at best, at worst put in front of a firing squad - but it’s not just you that’s got a problem with military discipline, it’s all of us: from Owen taking you up that night over London; to Mac and Bruce’s drinking; to Wendy smuggling her weapons here; to Scarlet leaving Bagshot every night to meet Pewtall without permission - we’re all guilty of something and me most of all for letting you all get away with it. Yes, we’re Misfits and we aren’t expected to obey all the rules, but there are limits even for us and we need to start getting a bit of, if not discipline, then some common sense into this squadron. We’re going to be leaving here at some point and Cummerbund and his cronies are waiting for us back in London, or had you forgotten about them?’

  Gwen nodded mutely and Abby chuckled. ‘So had I, but I just had a nice long conversation with Dot and she let me know in no uncertain terms that our every move here is being scrutinised. She will try to make sure that no word of your little indiscretion makes its way into any of the official reports, but it is exactly the kind of thing that will give them an excuse to shut this squadron down, so we need to buck our ideas up.’

  Gwen nodded. ‘I’ll try. And I’m sorry for hitting Baryshnikov.’

  ‘Don’t be; in the end you saved me from having to do it and tha
t would have been a lot worse for us. Just apologise to him tonight and be on your best behaviour from now on, please.

  ‘Roger, Leader.’

  Abby held her hand out to her. ‘Now come on, it’s lunch time. We’ll raise a drink to Drake with you later tonight, but we have a lot of work to do first.’

  That afternoon the Misfits were sent to attack Prussian positions along the border.

  Gwen used the white-hot anger she felt at Rudy Drake’s death against them, showing no mercy, coldly and efficiently destroying all the tanks, guns and defensive positions she came across with guns and rockets, making sure to expend only enough ammunition to get the job done so that it would last longer and she could do more killing.

  She felt no emotion, beyond that rage, felt no regret at the lives she took, but neither did she take any satisfaction in it.

  The Fleas were taken completely by surprise by the change in tactics and scrambled fighters far too late to do anything to stop them, and the Misfits were already long gone by the time they arrived, leaving a swathe of destruction in their wake that extended almost two miles.

  It was a drop in the ocean, though, compared to the immense force still arrayed along the front, ready to attack.

  Gwen stood in front of the mirror in the barracks, tying the black silk cravat of her day uniform for the fifth time, trying to get it perfectly symmetrical through bleary eyes.

  ‘Here let me.’ Kitty appeared behind her and reached around to tie it with practised movements.

  Gwen met her eyes in the reflection. ‘I don’t want to go; it feels too final, like he’s really gone, like there isn’t any hope.’

  ‘I know.’ The American woman put a hand on her shoulder. ‘None of us do. But he is gone - we would have heard something if he was still alive; you know the Barons would let us know. So, we have to mourn him and move on.’

  Gwen smiled sadly. ‘He told me the same thing, the night of the party, he...’

  She stopped, closing her eyes and taking a ragged breath, desperately fighting for control of herself. She didn’t want puffy and bloodshot eyes making her look weak when she confronted Baryshnikov to apologise for knocking him out, something she wasn’t at all sorry for and would do again in a heartbeat.

  ‘There you go.’

  Gwen opened her eyes and looked at her reflection. The cravat was better than it had ever been and the subtle makeup that Scarlet had helped her with was lovely, but her appearance really didn’t matter; she wasn’t dressing for Baryshnikov, she was dressing for Rudy, and Rudy wouldn’t have cared how she looked for his wake, what would have mattered to him was that she was there tonight and that tomorrow she went on with her life.

  When Gwen and Kitty walked into the mess hall, it was quieter than it had ever been in the evenings. The Misfits had occupied a large table close to the door and the Muscovite officers had grouped at the far end of the room around the fire, letting the British have their private celebration, keeping their songs low and almost mournful, with no dancing going on and the conversations sombre, so as not to disturb them.

  Gwen looked around the dimly lit space, trying to find Baryshnikov so that she could get the apology out of the way as soon as possible, but a nudge from Kitty called her attention to the wall next to the bar and all thoughts of the unpleasant man were pushed straight out of her mind as she walked over to it in a trance.

  All the Russian trophies had been cleared from the middle of the wall and in their place had been plastered a dozen photographs. Taking pride of place in the middle of the wall was a large portrait of Drake in his dress uniform hat, looking more serious than he ever really was - one of the formal photographs that Mr Jones had insisted of taking of the entire party on the Arturo. The portrait was surrounded by more candid ones showing Drake in his day-to-day life. There was one from that very morning of him sitting in his Harridan, a dusting of snow on his aircraft and white clouds behind. Another showed him napping in front of the fire in the mess hall, his hat tipped over his eyes. Mr Jones hadn’t been around the base long enough to take very many in Muscovy, though, and most of the photos were from the Arturo. There was even one of him and Gwen together in front of the dark shape of one of the Martinet fighters on the flight deck of the carrier. They were in profile, leaning in towards each other, deep in conversation, Gwen laughing at something he’d said.

  It was one photograph in particular that caught and held Gwen’s eye, though - it was of Drake on the deck of the Arturo, soaking wet, wearing white trousers and a white shirt, laughing merrily, his eyes sparkling and his head tilted back as he raked fingers through his hair to get it off his face. It was a remarkable picture, the photographer managing to capture his entire essence in one image, and Gwen reached out to touch it, a lump forming at the back of her throat.

  ‘Officer Stone.’

  The lightly-accented voice came from behind her and she turned to find Baryshnikov standing stiffly at attention. She was relieved to see that the only sign of her blow to his face was a slight bruising at the top of his nose and under his eyes; it would make her apology easier for him to accept if there was no lasting reminder of his humiliation.

  He was wearing his light blue hussar’s uniform, the gold buttons and braid shining brightly in the firelight, a red sash with a golden medallion draped over his shoulder and a long cavalry sabre at his waist. He seemed to be trying to make amends for his cavalier behaviour by sending Drake off with full honours and Gwen had to clench her fists to prevent herself from berating him and informing him that she would rather have her friend back than have his death honoured.

  No matter what her opinion of the man, though, she had to do her duty and she drew herself up to attention and saluted him. ‘Sir, I would like to apologise for my behaviour, it was...’

  ‘Think no more of it, Officer Stone.’

  He cut her off abruptly, rudely, but far from being offended, Gwen was relieved that she hadn’t had to betray her principles.

  The man gestured and Polikasparov stepped to his side. He was dressed in a similar uniform to his commander, but without the sash or quite so much gold braiding. He was carrying a long wooden box and he held it out to her.

  She took it, puzzled and looked at Baryshnikov for an explanation.

  ‘You were Lieutenant Drake’s closest friend, were you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gwen said slowly, not quite sure what was happening.

  She glanced at the box. It was about a yard long and had a cross section of about six inches square. It was the right size for a sword or a gun, but was too light to contain either.

  ‘I heard what he said about his ancestor losing his regiment’s colours in the Crimean conflict.’

  Gwen’s eyes immediately shot upwards, to the place where the British banner usually hung, the one that Drake’s eyes went to every time he came to eat. It was no longer hanging from the rafters; it was in the box in her hands.

  ‘Would you see that this gets to his family, please, and tell them that it has long been one of our most prized trophies, not because of who we took it from, but because of how hard it was to do so. Tell them that we have honoured it for long enough and it is time that it makes its way home. That a Drake has finally brought it home to them.’

  The man drew himself up and when he saluted, his eyes were on the images on the wall, not her. He held the pose for several heartbeats, then snapped his hand down and gave her a nod to her before going off to join the remnants of his squadron.

  Polikasparov remained behind. He glanced around to check that his commander wasn’t close, then leaned forwards to speak quietly to her. ‘Wonderful punch.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I thank you in the name of what little remains of the squadron; perhaps now he will be less of a Cossack in the air and more of a leader.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but you don’t act or look like the rest of your squadron. I take it you’re not a Cossack?’

  ‘No, my father got me my
place in this squadron. The rest of the pilots come from the Cossack regiments.’

  ‘Why? Surely there were other squadrons better suited to you? More... I don’t know... civilised?’

  He laughed. ‘There are plenty, but this is the best squadron in Muscovy and Baryshnikov is the best pilot. It was the ideal place to learn and get my own command as quickly as possible. But then the war...’

  Gwen sighed. ‘Yes. But then the war.’

  ‘I am sorry about your friend. He was a great pilot and a very brave man.’ There was no need to say anything more so Polikasparov just gave her a bow, glanced at the photos with a sad smile, then walked away.

  Gwen turned and found that her friends were watching her, waiting for her. She took a deep breath then went over to them, putting the box with the banner carefully on the floor by the wall before taking the empty seat between Abby and Kitty.

  A glass of vodka was on the table ready for her and looking around she saw that everybody had one, including Chastity, who didn’t drink at all, even the weak kvass.

  ‘We didn’t know him as well as you did, so it’s your lead, Gwen.’ Abby said.

  Gwen nodded and picked up the glass.

  Without a word she lifted it, quickly followed by the others and, after a moment to remember her childhood friend, a moment in which she said goodbye to him and promised that she would carry on living as best she could, she drank it down.

  Chapter 25

  The Misfits had got to know Drake fairly well in the weeks they’d lived with him, but they hadn’t known him long enough to have any stories to tell. Neither did the instructors, Howard and Pemberton, having met him only a few weeks before leaving England. It fell to Gwen, therefore, to say a few things about him.

  She sorted her memories of him in her head, automatically discarding the ones that she knew would embarrass him, but then stopped when she realised that she no longer needed to worry about that and decided to just talk about him and see what came out.

  ‘I owe my love of flying to Rudy. Before I met him, I fully intended to be just an engineer and definitely not an aeronautical engineer; that was going to be my little rebellion against my parents, but he persuaded me to go up in an aircraft and that was that - my life had changed. You have him to blame for being stuck with me.’