C Taylor - Nadya's War

From then on all talk of my wounds and the need to see the doctor vanished. Instead, we chatted about mundane things. Once Alexandra was done on my arm, I excused myself, saying I had some things I wanted to look at with my aircraft. What I said was true, to a degree, but I didn’t mind that neither wanted details nor offered to come with me. What I was actually doing was going to try and fix things with Klara, and I didn’t want an audience for when I ate humble pie.

I found Klara by my plane. She had the cowl off and was working on the engine. I know she saw me coming, but she kept her attention on her task at hand and didn’t acknowledge I was there until I spoke. “Do you have a minute?”

“I’m trying to get your plane serviced for tomorrow, comrade pilot,” she said. She threw me a passing glance as she traded a wrench for a screwdriver and sighed. “What?”

“I thought we could talk.”

“About?”

“The nose art you painted.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. You made your point, and I’m okay with it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

She painted over the hurt I’d caused with a mask of indifference, and I knew she’d said such things because she had no other option. As I was an officer, she couldn’t let me have it for ruining her gift.

“I’m not okay with it,” I said. I took a tentative step toward her, unsure of how she’d react to what was about to be said. Hell, I didn’t know how I’d react either. “I should’ve been more appreciative, and I’m sorry.”

The screwdriver slipped from her grasp. It hit the ground with a quiet thud. She didn’t go after it. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I miss you,” I said. “I miss our chats. I miss you wishing me off each flight. I miss you ordering me to come back safely. We’ve drifted apart, and I hate it.”

“What’s done is done. There’s no changing the past.”

I shook my head. “No, there isn’t. But I was thinking maybe you could paint something else on the nose instead.”

Klara snorted as she picked up her dropped tool. “Something else? Like what? Whatever stupid bird Alexandra has picked out for you?”

“I’m no bird,” I said. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stared out into the sky, feeling as if I were about to make confession to a priest. “I’m a stubborn, stupid, little boar that’s deadly to friendships.”

“At least you’re honest about it.”

I caught her smiling back at me, and couldn’t help but grin as well. “Am I forgiven?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you want painted? I don’t want to make an effort to give you something again and you throw it in my face.”

I wanted to ask for the iconic cross from the Knights Hospitaller. I’d always admired their tenacity and dedication to the Living God, but I didn’t think she’d paint it as she had less room for religion than Alexandra had. Furthermore, a cross would attract unwanted attention, from Petrov especially. Shame clawed at my heart as I continued to hide such an important facet of my being, but what could I do?

“I was thinking about another boar,” I said, “but not so cartoony. Have you seen what the Americans have done with their P-40s? They paint shark teeth on the lower cowl. Could you do something similar, but with razor-sharp tusks coming out?”

“You want something fierce.”

“And deadly,” I said. “Something to strike fear in the fascists every time they see it. I want them to know exactly who shot them down every time.”

Klara laughed, and for the first time in our encounter, she felt close again. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? You haven’t even gotten your first kill yet. Besides, I thought you said you didn’t want to be noticed up there.”

“I changed my mind,” I replied. “And I’ll get my first kill soon enough. Once I get enough of them, Martyona’s killer will come looking for me.”

Her face grew somber. “So this isn’t about you wanting to make amends. I guess it’s true. Only the grave will cure a hunchback.”

I took hold of her hands. They were slick and covered in oil. “I’m making amends. I swear. The last bit is an added bonus.” When she hesitated, I said the first thing that came to mind. “You asked me to come back to you. Here I am. It took me longer than it should have, but I’m not going anywhere. Never again.”

Klara stepped away. “I’m glad, but…”

“But what?”

“But I don’t want to get attached to you again,” she said. “Not yet at least.”

“I’ll earn your trust then if I must.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. I overheard Kazarinova talking. She’s grounding you on account of your burns and performance lately. Once she does, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be alone.”

“She’ll want to test me first,” I said, setting my jaw. “Or at least see how I do on one last mission.”

“Why? Because you’ve got a fool’s hope?”

“Because she would have grounded me already otherwise.” I said it as confidently as I could, but I knew I was grasping at straws. I had to believe I still had a shot to control my destiny.

“Even if you’re right, your wounds still interfere with your flying, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only right thing to do is replace you.”

My body numbed, and it felt as if I was smothered in a thick blanket. “No,” I said. “You’re wrong. There’s one thing I can do.”

The next day I learned I was slated for one mission, a simple patrol deep in our own lines, and I had nothing lined up for the remaining week aside from drills and mock combat with Zhenia and Alexandra. Tamara said the schedule was as such because she hadn’t decided what everyone’s assignments were. I knew that was a lie as I caught a glimpse of a duty roster saying otherwise. She hadn’t assigned me to combat duty because this was to be my last mission. I’d have to pull something off exceptional if I expected to keep my wings by the next day.

While the other pilots made their morning preparations, Alexandra included, I ducked into my dugout and grabbed a small, leather-bound case I stored under my bed. Inside, I kept a picture of Mother and Father they had sent me along with a letter written a few months ago, as well as a simple silver necklace that had belonged to my grandmother and a handkerchief she swore brought good luck. I usually kept a bible wrapped in that handkerchief, but since joining the war, I’d left it at home for fear of it being discovered. Now, instead of Holy Scripture being wrapped in the cloth, I had two yellow containers, each holding five morphine syrettes. Perhaps they would be the keys to my salvation.

Each syrette had a red and white tube that reminded me of a miniature bottle of toothpaste with a needle on top. I took off the clear plastic head that protected the needle before using the wire loop at the end to puncture the syrette’s seal.

I pulled up my shirt to expose my stomach as I’d heard it was a good place to inject the morphine. I didn’t know how much I should use, and the instructions provided by the E. R. Squibb & Sons company were in English. I figured a quarter of the tube would do. The syrettes were often used for soldiers suffering from major trauma, and I didn’t need a lot—only enough to take the edge off the pain.

I stuck the needle into my abdomen and gently squeezed the tube. There was a slight pinch and burning sensation as the medicine entered my body. I’d overheard the doctor a few weeks back say it could take a half hour for the morphine work, so I wouldn’t know until I was getting ready for takeoff what the effects would be. Hopefully, I injected enough, and God forbid, not too much.