Daughters of the Night Sky

As we landed and approached the staging area, we could see Polina barking orders and weaving her efficiency from the loose threads of chaos she was handed each night. She was always a model of competence and poise, and the presence of our male guests clearly had her running at peak form. I flashed a smile at Oksana once she had killed the plane’s engine and turned her head with a grin. She was a fine commander, but I wondered if it wasn’t our mechanic who was really running the regiment.

Renata brought us steaming-hot tea before seeing to the outfitting of new bombs, and we remained tethered into our seats as we drank. From what we could see when the first male sortie had been completed, the men exited their cockpits as soon as their wheels hit the frozen turf. They smoked, drank coffee, ate their dinners, and made small talk as each mechanic and each armorer refueled, reloaded, and fixed any damage incurred on the previous sortie. One pilot, one navigator, one armorer, one mechanic—just as we did in the beginning.

By the book.

By the end of the night, we’d pushed every crew to the point of exhaustion but had more than done our part in ruining the evening for the Germans encamped so nearby. The best part was that despite working at our maximum levels, we didn’t lose a single crew.

“How many sorties did your men complete this evening, Major?” Oksana asked Grankin by way of greeting after we’d helped Polina and Renata with the nightly maintenance.

“Oh, I don’t think we kept an exact tally,” Grankin said, airily dismissing the question.

“Really. I would expect a commander in the Red Army to keep exacting records. We endeavor to log every sortie each of our crews takes. Moscow prefers as many details as we can provide. Is the same not true for you, Grankin?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he blustered.

“Sixty-eight, sir,” a short man with a squeaking voice supplied from behind the major.

“There, you hear? Sixty-eight. What do your meticulous records say you’ve done tonight?”

“Eighty-four,” Oksana said without referencing a ledger of any kind. “Not our best, but not bad.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Well done. Your crews are remarkably dedicated. How do you do it?”

“Indeed they are dedicated. If you want to emulate their performance, your men will have to get by with a great deal less socializing while planes are being turned. Just as a start.”

Grankin stormed out of the tent, his face as dark as thunderclouds. His underlings followed him at a healthy lag.

“I wouldn’t want to be part of that regiment just now,” I proclaimed as Oksana leaned back in her chair. She gave a full-throated laugh and rested her boots on the edge of the desk, radiating self-satisfaction.

“Nor would I. They seem like nice-enough boys, but they haven’t the hunger my ladies do. That can’t be taught or disciplined into anyone. It comes from decades of being told we can’t do a thing while knowing we can. They’ll never have that.”

“No, they won’t,” I agreed. “More’s the pity. It’ll be just as well when we move on.”

“Well, we’re going to have to make room for a man in our ranks,” Oksana said, her face falling a bit. “We’re getting a male radio technician. They only have one who can be transferred to us, so we’ll have to make do.”

“Well, one man can be henpecked into submission, I suppose.”

Oksana chuckled. “I don’t know how much of that will be necessary. They forwarded his uniform to me this morning. If he doesn’t find the dress becoming, the panties will do the trick.”

CHAPTER 22

December 1944, Poland, Sorties: 794

We’d enjoyed a quiet December in Poland and could smell the sweet tang of victory in the air like the seductive scent of fresh bread wafting out the bakery door. I held a parcel in my hands from Vanya. It had been weeks since his last postcard. I couldn’t let my thoughts drift over to the dark places and at the same time maintain the courage to fly, so I invented reasons for the lack of communication to distract myself. Lost sacks of mail—plausible. Too much time enjoying the camaraderie of his fellow pilots—somewhat less so. Far too much work and very little leisure—probable. I couldn’t contemplate anything more dire.

But here in my hands was an actual parcel from him. The only one I’d received during the war. A small canvas, not larger than a child’s school slate, was coiled up and packed carefully in a leather tube that might have been suited for blueprints or important documents. I unfurled it to find a small but intricately rendered portrait of myself. Every line in my face, the curve of my nose, the shade of my hair, all re-created from his perfect memory. He couldn’t have devoted many hours to it—I knew what his life was like on the front—but there wasn’t a brushstroke out of place. Seeing each of my features assembled on the canvas, this time without any benevolence of young love perfecting the flaws, I felt a moment of breathlessness as my heart strained against my ribs.