Daughters of the Night Sky

“You do a great deal for the war effort by housing us here so comfortably,” I said, forcing myself to eat more of the unfortunate cake.

“Will you do me one service, my dears?” Lina asked, her eyes welling with tears. “Ask after our boy. Lev is all we have. He was proud to go and fight. Signed up before he had to. He’s a good boy, but I want—”

“You want him home,” I said, finishing the sentence for her as her tears choked back the words too painful to speak. “We can’t make any promises that it will do any good, but we can try.”

“Thank you, girls,” Pytor said, his voice gruff with his own unshed tears.

I felt a deep ache in my heart, knowing that they were only two of millions of parents living for the next postcard from the front.

CHAPTER 13

June 1942, the Southern Front, Sorties: 0

We stood at attention, waiting for the general to give his instructions. We’d completed the extra training he’d insisted upon. Sofia promised that he would have no choice but to send us out on missions, as his excuses were growing feebler and the need for our skills more undeniable by the day. As we waited our faces were somber. No glint of pride or enthusiasm shone in our eyes to betray our solemnity, as it might have done even months before.

“You will be flying your first sortie tonight,” Chernov said without preamble.

One sortie? A mission comprised multiple flights—sorties. What was this?

A look at Sofia’s face answered the question. It was not a resolute mask of determination and duty. Her brow was furrowed, and her jaw was set. She was displeased and only just keeping control of her tongue.

We would only be allowed to fly one sortie, as a test of our battle readiness.

“Three teams will fly out at 2100 hours,” the general went on. His usually ruddy skin was now tinged a sickly shade of orange, likely caused by poor health and stress—by-products of the war in which we would now take our place. “Those teams are charged with destroying a stockpile of German munitions. If the mission is a success, the rest of you will go out the following evening. Your missions will be tactical in nature. Bombing supply lines and bridges, a few strategic buildings. You’ll be flying over German territory, so above all we want you keeping the damned Huns awake as much as you can. If there is anything your crop dusters are good for, it’s making a racket. We want to use that to our advantage.”

He nodded to Sofia, who had gained some composure. “Comrade Chernov is correct in this,” she said to us. “A tired Nazi is a poor soldier, and we will use this to regain a foothold in the area. We will have the element of surprise on our side, for a time, and I cannot emphasize how important these missions will be for the success of our ground units.

“I will be flying with Captain Tymoshenko, as I would not send any of you up when I would not go myself. Junior Lieutenants Kozlova and Andreyeva—will you fly with us?”

The pilot, Darya, and her navigator, Eva, stepped forward and replied “Yes, Major” in unison, then stepped back into formation.

“Excellent. Junior Lieutenants Pashkova and Soloneva, will you fly with us?”

I felt my stomach rise to my throat. We’d wanted this since Sofia first came to Chelyabinsk. Since we had learned of the war’s spread over the Russian border. Now that it was upon me, the reality of flying over German territory terrified me. My feet felt encased in cement and steel, as though I had become one of our efficient new buildings. I heard the clack of Taisiya’s boots as she stepped forward. She was no coward, and I could not afford to hesitate. I stepped forward, a split second after her, and slipped her the briefest of sidelong glances. We had to be in this together.

“Yes, Major,” we answered in one voice.

“I expected nothing less of any of you,” Sofia said, a grim smile finally pulling at her lips. “I’m dismissing you for the rest of the day to get as much sleep as you can. Navigators will be provided with flares and grenades. You will carry nothing else except your service pistols.”

“And parachutes, of course?” I asked.

“No,” Sofia said, blanching a few shades. “We need every available gram of load on these small craft to carry bombs large enough to inflict damage.”

There were no murmurs of dissent. Only stunned silence.

“One last directive. If we encounter enemy fire while out on a sortie, we have been given permission to return fire. That is a standing order. Everyone, flying or not, will report back at 2000 hours.”

A cold comfort—all we had were our sidearms and a few grenades against German machine guns.

Taisiya and I walked in silence back to the Utkin farm, surprising the kindly couple with our midday return.