Daughters of the Night Sky(5)
“With all due respect, Captain, when Tokarev is at the front, he’ll be flying in every sort of condition. If he can’t hit a perfectly marked target in clear weather and with no enemy fire to contend with, he has no hope of making his mark in battle.”
Karlov nodded and turned his attention to the pilot and navigator then taking their turn at the run. I watched with interest, noting the idiosyncrasies of the pilot and the technique of the navigator. There was almost as much to learn on the ground as there was in the cockpit.
I looked over at Solonev, with his chiseled features that looked so much like the ones that graced the propaganda posters the party was so fond of. I had hoped when he arrived he’d be all flash and no substance, but he was, much to my annoyance, as skilled a pilot as had ever crossed the academy’s threshold. A tad arrogant and none too fond of authority, but no one begrudged him his pride after they saw him in the air. Should I thank him? Scold him for butting in? I couldn’t decide which. Aside from Taisiya Pashkova, my dearest friend at the academy—perhaps the dearest friend I’d ever had—he was the only person who had championed me in the three years since I’d entered the academy. I was more than capable of championing myself, but it was exhausting work at times.
I wanted to shove my elbow into Tokarev’s ribs and hiss, “At least someone here knows the truth,” but a little prat like Tokarev would certainly whine about it to anyone who would listen.
Only a few more months. This will all be over in June.
When Karlov dismissed us from our practicals and we dispersed for the evening meal, I caught Solonev’s eye and mouthed, Thank you. He shot me a quick nod with a somber expression. He didn’t like Karlov’s behavior any better than I did. As much as I hated that he had felt the need to stand up for me, I hadn’t so many allies that I could afford to be less than grateful to any of them.
“Germany has invaded Yugoslavia and Greece,” Taisiya said by way of greeting as I perched on the end of my bunk to remove the heavy combat boots that still pinched and rubbed my feet raw after three years.
The women’s bunkroom was little more than a large, repurposed supply room lined with nine bunks and a small space heater keeping us from freezing in winter. As in so many areas of military life, our group’s presence forced improvisation.
“Hello to you, too,” I said with a roll of my eyes, massaging my feet. “It’s so wonderful to have a friend who always greets you with such cheerful news.” Though the fact was I appreciated her keeping me informed—better to get news from her than read about all the warmongering for myself. There was nothing good coming from the papers these days.
She peeked over her gray newspaper curtain and stuck her tongue out at me. “Katya, the Germans are moving forward every day. It’s nothing to take lightly.”
“The nonaggression pact will hold,” I said dismissively. She was right, of course, but it was too much reality to take on after a full day of classes and practicals.
“We can hope, but Hitler’s reach keeps growing. All this land grabbing frightens me,” Taisiya said with a heavy sigh.
I grunted my reluctant agreement. The more I learned of Hitler, the warier I was of him. Then I thought of our own Stalin, who preached equality and the rise of the proletariat while extending his own grasp farther and farther west. I hoped Stalin wasn’t simply Hitler in a different uniform but dared not voice my concern.
“How were your practicals?” I asked to divert the subject.
“Fine. Made every mark. Yudin of course said nothing.” She placed her newspaper down and stretched her arms over her head to loosen the knots in her back. “The usual.”
“Better than me. I made every mark, but Tokarev still missed two. Karlov blamed me.” I pulled on my cotton uniform slacks, wishing they issued us something in between the thick wool of our winter uniforms and the thin cotton for summer. The women’s barracks were cold and drafty, but the mess hall was always stifling.
“Sounds like Karlov. What an ass.” Taisiya stood up and followed my lead, changing into her uniform for the evening meal. “Three months left,” she said. “We can endure these idiots for three more months.”
There were only the two of us in the third year, the others having joined the academy after us. The younger girls were just as ambitious, though not quite as serious yet. The second-year girls, Iskra in particular, were fairly driven. Marta and Klavdiya, our first-years, fell far short of their standard. They performed at the middle of the pack, neither brilliantly nor poorly, and never strove to break into the upper echelon. Just as Taisiya and I did, they idolized women like Sofia Orlova, who had shattered world records and been named Hero of the Soviet Union, but they were still learning the amount of work it took to achieve such lofty goals.
I was grateful to have Taisiya. School had been a lonely slog, and she was one of the first people who truly understood how deeply the desire to fly had sunk into my bones.
Taisiya gave herself a quick glance in the mirror and gave an impassive nod, which meant her uniform looked tidy and she was pleased enough with her appearance to go up. On the rare occasion she had to wear a dress, the effect was charming. She looked like a young matron who ought to be chasing a ball with her three sturdy sons. When she was in uniform, her middling height, brown hair, and even features simply blended into the academy walls. It was possibly her greatest asset in her advancement so far. My towering height and auburn hair attracted much more attention than I would have liked, but I refused to slouch. Nor would I cover my red tresses with dye to make myself invisible.