C Taylor - Nadya's War

“If?” My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard, and words poured out of me like water from an upturned pitcher. “Every night I see Martyona’s face. I hear her calling to me on the radio. I have to avenge her. I have to kill the bastard who shot her down and make sure no one else dies at his hands, otherwise I’ll always be the girl who got her killed.”

“Steel yourself, Nadya,” she said. “Before this war is over, more girls will die—some who you’ll have known longer than Martyona. It’s an ugly fact there’s no getting around.”

“Should I pretend Martyona never mattered?”

Tamara shook her head. “Of course she mattered, but don’t let your grief get the better of you. You must move on. If you can’t control yourself here, how will you be able to in the air where it counts the most?”

My head swam. Her advice seemed impossible and dishonoring, and her unyielding tone made me wish for the commander I’d caught a glimpse of moments ago. “I can control myself,” I said, though I didn’t sound convincing even in my own ears. “Let me back up so I can put that man into the ground.”

“I intend to make them pay. I promise,” she said. “Now go get some lunch. Once you’ve had your fill, I’m putting you to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Our 4 thtank army suffered heavy losses, and the Germans are fifty kilometers from Stalingrad. You can help with managing supply for the city’s defenses. There’s also plenty of admin, inventory, and inspection you can do.”

“But you won’t let me fly.”

“That’s the last of it, Nadya,” she said as her brow knitted. “Bravery may win a battle, but logistics wins a war, and right now I want to help win the war. When the doctor says you’re fit to go up and I’m convinced you can, we’ll discuss it again.”

I was hurt at how final it all sounded as she left. I clung to the idea that one day soon I’d be allowed back in the cockpit. Until then, I decided I could refine my dogfighting skills in my head by analyzing every possibility and engagement I could think of so the next time I encountered the German Yellow Eight, I’d be the one doing the killing.

With a rumbling stomach, I went to the mess hall. The building was made of wood and painted blue with a brown slanted roof that looked like the butcher shop near my family’s home in Tula. Mice scattered from the entrance as I approached. The airfield had been infested by the rodents all summer, and I reminded myself to watch my step, not so much for the mice, but because I didn’t want to risk turning my ankle if one ran under my boot.

Inside the building I received a warm reception by those inside—kitchen staff as well as some of the pilots and ground crews of other planes. I appreciated their kindness, but their words and hugs put me on edge. I worried that if they knew what had happened that day, they’d blame me for Martyona’s loss.

I took some bread and a small bit of kasha for lunch. The foremost was stale, but I was hungry and didn’t care. The latter was delicious. Usually the grain porridge was bland and at times undercooked, but this time it had salt, onion, and a touch of beef broth. In our world, such food was considered a slice of heaven. I shoveled the food in my mouth, occasionally having bits go flying or stick to my mouth and chin. More than once I wiped my face on my sleeve. Though unladylike, we were all used to eating in a hurry. Once finished, I tossed the small metal plate it had been served on onto a nearby counter and left posthaste.

I didn’t get far before I heard a familiar, frantic voice from behind.

“Nadya?”

I turned around the second Klara dropped the wrench she was carrying and lunged after me. “It’s me! It’s me!” I said, laughing.

Klara wrapped me in a bear hug so strong I was certain she’d pop a rib. She eased her grip as I wheezed, and she nestled her head between my neck and shoulder. “My Little Boar,” she said. “Why did you take so long to come back? I should sock you in the head for making me worry.”

“I misplaced your plane and had to walk home.”

“They said you were shot down.”

I nodded. “By misplaced I meant turned it into a burning wreck that tried to kill me.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” she said, an edge of anxiety in her voice.

“I…” Grief hit me like a wild kick from a mule, and I found I couldn’t even start the story. In the short time I’d been at the Anisovka, Klara had become my best friend, and she looked up to me more than she should. She’d also been good friends with Martyona, and I feared her reaction if she knew how I’d failed.

To my surprise, Klara backed, pain and horror on her face. “Oil was ejecting from the gear valve again, wasn’t it? I’d meant to have it re-checked.”

I grabbed her tightly by both shoulders, grimacing as a stab of pain shot through my palms. She had a touch of paranoia that could swing out of control if not caught fast. “The plane flew fine. I did not.”

Klara bit her lip. She picked up her fallen wrench and studied it as if some defect would present itself. Finally, she looked at me and said, “Promise I didn’t miss anything?”

“Promise.”

“Did you ram one? I know they told you to do that if your guns jammed.”

I laughed. “If it came to that, I don’t know if I’d still be here.”

“Probably not, so try not to,” she said. Creases formed in her brow. Her voice turned vengeful. “I hope you find the men who killed Martyona and Kareliya. They deserve an early, painful grave.”

In full agreement, I nodded. “I actually met the one who shot down Martyona,” I said. Klara’s eyes widened, and I explained. “He had to bail when his engine gave out. We met on the ground.”

“Tell me you killed him. What was he like?”

“A heartless butcher,” I spat, thinking how he tore Martyona apart. As fast as those words came out, that image jarred against my encounter with him on the ground. That experience left me perplexed as to who he was since I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t killed me or taken me prisoner. All I knew was I hated the man, that and one other thing. “He’s also a terrible shot with a pistol. He took a pop at me and missed.”

Klara shuddered. “I’m glad he is. When do you fight again?”

“Kazarinova didn’t say. She’s worried about my injuries.”

Klara’s face soured, and she snorted. “Figures. If I were you, I’d make friends with the doc and get as many girls to support you as you can.”

“What for?”

Klara glanced around. The nearest group of people was a ground crew fifty meters away loading ammunition belts into one of our fighters, but despite the distance, Klara spoke in hushed tones. “Father always said gambling was wrong, but if I had to, I’d bet against you,” she said. “Kazarinova’s a bitter pill. If her wounds are keeping her grounded, she’ll do the same for you. She won’t have a lower officer showing her up.”

“No, she’s not like that,” I said. “I know she’s hard, but she was sweet when I first arrived.”

“All for show,” Klara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Kazarinova’s been in trouble recently from some of her decisions. Losing Kareliya and Martyona added to the fire. She’s not going to risk more girls getting killed if your injuries are a problem.”

“She wouldn’t replace me,” I said. Even as I spoke the words, I didn’t believe them. Two dozen Yak-1s sat on the field, and a thousand times that many girls were scattered across the country yearning to climb in one. Tamara would have no trouble filling my spot.

“Something else,” Klara said. “Liliia and some others have asked Major Raskova to remove Kazarinova from her post. If Kazarinova goes down, I can see her taking some of us with her simply out of spite.”