Daughters of the Night Sky

As soon as our plane was cleared, we were signaled to take off again with orders to target another sector of the same camp. We made our mark, returned, and were back in the air yet again fifteen minutes later.

Taisiya and I flew thirteen sorties that night. Our previous best was seven. When Renata brought our supper to our planes after our sixth flight, we didn’t even bother loosening our harnesses while we ate. The meat was dry but still warm and filling, and the tea warmed me to my core.

One of the armorers kept meticulous records of each sortie to pass on to our upper echelon. As a regiment we had flown sixty-four more sorties that night than we had on our busiest night before our streamlining.

A week later, emerging from the mess hall in the early afternoon to begin our preparations for the night’s mission, we caught sight of General Chernov deep in conversation with Sofia as he appeared to be reading over her shoulder. His flushed brow furrowed as he peered down at the worn brown leather notebook in her hands—Polina’s treasured notebook. He stalked off in a huff, but Sofia bore a smile that was victorious and more than a little smug.

“What was the matter with Chernov?” Oksana asked as Sofia approached and the general was safely out of earshot.

“He was aggravated we haven’t been flying according to regulations,” she said, her smile not wavering from her crimson lips.

“Did we do anything wrong?” I asked, feeling the tension creep into my shoulders. Would Chernov punish us for breaking the rules, despite our results?

“Quite the contrary. Word of our increased productivity has already gone around the brass. Chernov came to see what sorcery we ‘night witches’ had concocted.”

“What did he think of my plans—our plans, Major?” Polina asked timidly, emerging from behind our plane.

“He would prefer we flew by the book.”

“So we’re abandoning the modifications?” Polina asked.

“No, I simply told him ‘the book’ was fine, but we decided to write a better one. I expect many of your modifications will become regulation soon enough, Junior Lieutenant Vasilyeva.”

“I’m a senior sergeant, Major,” Polina corrected. Few of the women who served as ground crews had earned the rank of commissioned officer, nor did they expect to.

“Not any longer,” Sofia said, extending her hand. “The general passes on his congratulations. Or else he would, if he weren’t such a pompous ass.”

CHAPTER 17

July 1943, Sorties: 449

Chernov may have wished us to the deepest pit in the middle of Siberia, but he had become a minority. Because we had come to fly so many missions, we had strengthened the Russian foothold in the Crimea. We were no longer the 588th Night Bomber Regiment; we were the Forty-Sixth Guards Night Bomber Aviation Regiment. The title Guards was an honor bestowed on few regiments, and ours was the first all-female regiment to earn it. An unfortunate truth is that those who earn these sorts of honors rarely have time to savor them. When they promoted the regiment, we had as nice a dinner as could be mustered on a battlefield and then went back to our aircrafts.

As it was now again summer and there were no better lodgings to be had, we slept in eight-man tents that barely protected us from the constant clouds of mosquitos that followed us like starving dogs. The advantage was sleeping close to the planes and being able to move our camp with a few hours’ notice.

Though Polina oversaw the maintenance on our Polikarpov, we took it upon ourselves to give her a good wipe-down and checkup each week. We redrew the chalk lines on the wings we used for targeting. Any holes that needed repatching, any splotches in need of painting, were tended to by our own hands. Polina handed over these duties once a week with good-enough grace, though we knew to leave anything to do with the engine itself to her attention.

“She’s like a dutiful old mare,” Taisiya announced one day as she applied with delicate strokes a coat of butyrate dope to a patch. She’d already laid the coat of nitrate dope on the patch, and once this second coat dried, it would be ready to accept paint to match the rest of the linen canvas. The stink of the dope was powerful, like concentrated turpentine, so I was careful to stand upwind to avoid the headache that would be the inevitable result from inhaling the fumes.

“More like a sturdy milk cow,” I tutted, patting the fuselage as I might the rump of a faithful Guernsey who had just been given a good milking.

“That’s it. We’re calling her Daisy,” Taisiya said, her chuckle nostalgic. “We’ll call her for Matvei’s best dairy cow.”

We shook hands on the agreement, even painting chains of daisies around the cockpits with the moniker Daisy spelled out in loopy script in addition to our own names under the lip of each cockpit.