by Brian Bakos
“Let’s go outside,” I say.
“Sure.”
We exit to the assembly ground in front of the barracks. In happier times, the whole squadron stood out here for roll call – ramrod straight, eyes focused on the promising future. This spot had seemed to be the gateway to the whole world.
Now Bel and I are forbidden to venture beyond its confines, although nothing tangible restrains us. We could slip away easily enough, particularly at night, but I would rather be shot than betray the trust that has been shown me. I’ve already betrayed enough trust.
The outdoor brightness hurts my eyes, and I shade them with my hand. The abrupt change of lighting does not seem to affect Bel, however. He walks to the far edge of the assembly ground and stands looking out toward the runway. He conveys a sense of barely restrained motion, like a horse chomping at the bit.
“Anything new out there!” I call.
“Naw.”
Then the drone of airplane motors enters the morning air. The old thrill takes hold of me again.
We look skyward to see the approach of the Blue Ice training squadron. The ‘Blue Eyes’ squadron as Bel sarcastically calls it because of its disproportionate number of racial apex types. They are lined up in parallel rows with a single aircraft flying point. Toward the back of the formation, some planes form themselves into something like a hilt. The arrangement is meant to be a flying dagger, apparently.
“Damned goof offs!” Bel says. “Our formation was a lot better than that.”
“Yes, I believe it was,” I say.
We’d spent many hours practicing our own formation for the rally – the stylized eagle of the National Salvation Party, with me flying as the proud, right-cocked head. But nobody would see it now.
“I should be in command of that squadron,” Bel says, jabbing a finger at the Blue Ice. “I’d make sure they flew straight!”
“That would have been best,” I say, too low for Bel to hear.
But he’d been ill with severe influenza when the three squadron leaders of our training group were picked last year. There’d been an epidemic at that time with numerous deaths around the country. He’d not been cleared to fly again until three weeks after we’d settled in to our new posts, and it had taken him quite a while to get his edge back.
I experience a sudden flash of insight. Now I know why he remained standing while Sipren had tended his wound – why he came to stand before the wing commander rather than retreat to the hospital. Whatever might be coming, he is determined to confront it on his feet. He’d been lying down when his great opportunity came and went.
Beltran walks back toward me.
“Don’t get me wrong, Dye,” he says. “It’s been an honor to serve as your deputy. I admire you more than anybody I know.”
Again I am astonished by his praise; another flash of insight comes to me. This is a morning for insights.
“But you hate me, too, don’t you?” I say.
Now it’s Bel’s turn to look astonished. Then a little smile creeps over his face.
“You always were the smartest,” he says.
“Well, I don’t know about that ...”
“It’s true,” Bel says, “all your big, poetic words and fancy ideas. Maybe you were a philosopher in some past life, wandering the streets of Athens – ”
He stops talking abruptly. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.
“That’s who we are,” Bel says, “Athens and Sparta! We should be helping each other from our own power bases – loyal rivals. You know, pushing each other to our best efforts.”
“That’s ... very interesting,” I say.
“Think about it, Dye. With a whole world to conquer, Athens and Sparta turned on each other. How dumb was that?”
For a supposed philosopher, I can’t think of an answer. Instead I jerk a thumb back toward the barracks.
“I hope they don’t move anybody in with us for the rally,” I say. “Bad enough we can’t go ourselves without listening to somebody else talk about how great it was.”
7. Unscheduled Visitors
We spend the next hour outside doing calisthenics, observing the rally preparations and talking about our predicament. It is not a good one.
The Raptor Aces squadron has been deactivated ‘until further notice,’ and the other boys sent home. Our planes have been transferred to another air base where more ‘trustworthy’ people will be flying them.
Bel and I are confined to barracks until the disciplinary hearing, which would have already taken place were it not for the rally. But once the marching and speechifying are over, after the Party big shots drive away in their luxury automobiles, we will be facing a panel of senior officers.
And then what?
At very least, our dream of becoming fighter pilots is over. We planned to join the Air Force next year as ‘poolies.’ Meaning we’d be attending our last year of high school and flying with the Raptor Aces while receiving further military instruction. Once we graduated, we’d be fighter pilot trainees.
But all this is a dead letter now. The Air Force has no use for insubordinate fools. No, once we become of age, it will be the infantry for us – riflemen slogging through the mud instead of elite warriors soaring in the sky. We both feel the odds are good that we’ll spend the intervening time in a labor camp, only to receive draft notices on the day we get out.
Then again, with the war dragging on longer than expected, there is talk of lowering the draft age. So, perhaps the stay in the labor camp won’t be so long after all. This is very cold comfort.
“Hey, what’s that?” Beltran says.
A powerful rumble is coming from the east, the sound of big airplane motors.
“Must be one of our bomber squadrons!” I say. “They’re practicing for the air show.”
“Yeah.” Bel directs his binoculars skyward. “The flying barn guys are coming all right.”
I look off toward the approaching formation, but cannot make out much detail yet, despite my ‘eagle eyes.’ The big planes are flying at perhaps 3,000 meters, though it is hard to gauge just how high they actually are.
I feel the old camaraderie begin to return – me and Beltran standing shoulder to shoulder, gazing up at the sky which is our true home. How many times before had we done this while observing our squadron mates flying aerobatics and simulated bomb runs? I experience an almost unbearable ache for the heavens.
Can I ever go back?
If, by some miracle, I am allowed to take a place in the sky again, I will never, ever do anything to endanger my position there. I’ll accept any role, even the humblest crew member of a transport plane. Just give me a chance to prove my worth! I imagine myself piloting one of the approaching bombers, looking down at the mundane world, at the blond-haired boy admiring my progress.
I witnessed a flyby of a heavy bomber squadron last year, maybe eight months after the war started, and I was thrilled by the power of the ‘flying barns.’ The roar of their massed engines spoke to me of unstoppable purpose.
These engines are different, however. There is more of a shrieking racket to them and less the bellowing tones of the sky gods. The bombers must be a new model, I reckon, to be presented at our air show for the first time. What better place to unveil a new facet of national power?
But this explanation does not satisfy me. These aircraft have an alien feel to them, a quality of being not right, somehow. Of course, I tell myself, bombing planes are supposed to look hostile by nature, even so ...
I watch with growing unease as the aircraft go into a shallow dive. Even without the binoculars, I can tell that they are big, ugly brutes painted in camouflage with four engines apiece. They move fast and ominous, like Valkyries coming to choose the slain. Fear begins to grip me, I recognize the aircraft model now.
“I don’t believe it!” Beltran lowers the binoculars, his eyes wide with shock. “They’re – ”
The wail of air raid sirens cuts off his voice. I snat
ch the binoculars and jerk them up to my face. We stand together, like roebucks gaping at the headlamps of an approaching lorry. The enemy aircraft close in – at least thirty of them. All other reality drops away. The world becomes mayhem and ear-splitting explosion.
They hit the main runway first, casting bombs down the concrete in a deadly row. The bleachers shatter like match sticks. The review stand remains, with the cameraman filming the carnage until he, too, is blasted to eternity. Shock waves rumble under our feet.
The binoculars glued to my eyes lend an air of unreality to the scene, as if the hunk of metal and glass is somehow protecting me from danger. The scene is horrible and sublime all at once. It has an undeniable, lethal beauty. A gigantic explosion rips the air as the fuel storage tanks go up. I yank my eyes away from the flash.
“Where’re our fighters!” Beltran shouts.
No resistance anywhere, the enemy owns the sky. The main aircraft hangar goes up in a fantastic ball of flame and debris. A foul, burning stench of death washes over us; then a vast suction, pulling the air from our lungs.
Beltran rushes to the middle of the adjoining field, shaking his fists at the sky.
“Damn you!”
The enemy planes have exhausted their bomb loads. They are crisscrossing the area now at low altitude, their belly gunners strafing the ground – like obscene, giant insects mocking our impotence. A row of parked training aircraft blows apart under the machine gun fire.
One of the bombers is coming straight for us.
“Over here, Dye!” Beltran shouts.
He runs to an air raid trench and flings himself in. I think to follow, but simply can’t get my legs to carry me there. Besides ... I rather prefer it where I am. As the shrieking, pounding aircraft bears down on me, blotting out the world, I feel a strange serenity. This is how a warrior should meet his end – on his feet, facing the enemy.
“Come on, you bastards!” I shout.
The belly gunner opens fire. Bullets stitch along the ground toward me. The plane’s vast shadow passes over an instant before the bullets arrive. I feel their heat and power ...
Then the bomber is past me, firing a salvo into the barracks. Shattered glass flies around like Christmas sparkle.
The enemy squadrons are regrouping now and heading back the way they came, as if they are performing some leisurely, peacetime maneuver. The din of airplane motors fades into the distance. All is quiet now except for the hiss of fire and the screams coming from the Youth League encampment.
I feel that I am rising from this earth and will soon disappear into the upper regions – as if I’ve been freed from the confines of my physical body. I do not know how much time goes by.
Beltran rises, Lazarus-like, from the air raid trench and drifts toward me through the smoke and haze. His mouth is slack and his eyes glow with astonishment. He runs his hands over my body, examining my uniform ripped by bullets and flying glass.
“There’s not a scratch on you,” he says.
The sensation of being touched by another human brings me back down to earth. I summon my power of speech, my jaw strains into action.
“We must help,” I say.
We run toward the destruction, heedless of our orders to remain under barracks arrest.
8. Bloody Aftermath
HQ is heavily damaged with many casualties lying about the wreckage. A choking combination of smoke and dust fills the air amid the wails of wounded men. The ruined lobby is too difficult to navigate, so we run around to the shattered window of the wing commander’s office.
We find him sitting in a chair, dazed and covered with plaster dust from the wrecked ceiling. Somebody is binding up a wound on his arm. We rap our knuckles on the window frame.
“Wing Commander ... sir!”
He obviously doesn’t hear; maybe the explosions broke his ear drums. The medic notices us, though, and he points us out. The wing commander slowly rotates his head toward the window. The eyes staring from the plastered face are huge and bloodshot. They contain no recognition.
“I don’t think he’s with us anymore,” Beltran mutters.
“You lads go make yourself useful,” the medic says.
“Is that a direct order on the wing commander’s behalf?” I say.
“Get going, dammit!” the medic snaps.
“Yes, sir!”
Our adherence to protocol is absurd under the circumstances. But we must hang onto something in this new and hideous reality.
The next hours pass in a nightmare blur – dragging bodies from the wreckage, giving first aid to the wounded, transporting them to hospital. I sorely miss Bezmir and Sipren with their advanced medic skills, but they have been sent home with the rest of our former squadron.
The corpses we handle are nothing like the slobe boy with his nearly unmarked appearance and defiant smirk. These dead are horribly maimed – charred, disemboweled, limbs and heads torn off, faces distorted with agony. Blood and stink is everywhere. My stomach heaves, and I am grateful that I have skipped breakfast.
The Youth League encampment is the worst. The enemy struck it with anti-personnel bombs of a particularly vicious type. The boys had nowhere to hide and were simply cut to shreds by millions of razor sharp bomb fragments. We stack their bodies like cord wood and haul away the screaming, mangled wounded.
The flagstaffs that had festooned the encampment are mostly cut down, their once proud banners covered with gore. Here and there a tattered flag still waves in useless defiance.
A party of Youth League survivors assists us in the ghastly work. Their eyes are haunted and their faces so pale that they almost seem transparent. Many of them are crying at the sight of their lost comrades.
“My God, Bel,” I say, “we were like them only a few years ago.”
Beltran nods. His face is also pale, like that of some avenging death god, and his piercing eyes gleam with hate.
“Look at all this,” he says. “And they’re going to stick us in a labor camp? What sense does that make?”
He smacks a fist into a palm.
“Let me at those slobe bastards!”
Thank heaven the infirmary has not been hit, but just about everything else has been. The enemy knew exactly what targets to strike and what ordnance to use. Some lousy spy must have tipped them off.
And they’d also known when to attack – just before the victory rally while attention was diverted from defense and when large numbers of non-combatant personnel would be on base. Clearly, our system of air raid shelters and anti-aircraft protection is inadequate, and we’ve paid the price. Nobody ever thought this base would come under attack.
Stupid, arrogant fools!
The sun is going down as we stumble back to our barracks. I am numb from all the horror I’ve witnessed; years seem to have passed in this single day. So this is war? A far cry from the uplifting experience we’d been taught to anticipate. Where is all the glory and the cheering, the marching bands?
My whole consciousness narrows down to a single thought:
Please let the plumbing be intact!
If I can just discard my filthy, blood-soaked clothing and spend time under a hot shower, maybe I can get through this day with some of my sanity. But the fates decide otherwise.
Our barracks has been converted to a hospital overflow facility. The cots are all taken by the less severely wounded, except for our two beds which have been shoved into a corner. The strafing has destroyed the hot water tank and damaged the plumbing. Bel and I have to content ourselves with a miserable cold water scrub taken out of buckets.
I can’t bear the thought of spending a night under the same roof with so many moaning, suffering people, so I haul my bedding outside and hunker down under a tree. Bel soon follows.
***
Three days pass, and things begin returning to ‘normal’ – whatever that means any longer. The barracks starts emptying out as the walking wounded limp away, and the hot water is restored. Bel and I seem to ha
ve been forgotten. At least I have plenty of time to reflect on our perilous new situation.
We are located in the eastern region of our country, closest to the battle front – but the front has advanced a great distance into enemy territory, beyond the range of bombing aircraft. Such planes require sophisticated bases far behind the combat zone. I recognize the aircraft type from our studies of enemy models and know that it does not possess extreme range capabilities.
Only one conclusion can be drawn from this: the enemy is getting closer.
Such is not the case, if you believe our war reports. In these dispatches, our troops are still advancing, pushing the enemy ever farther back into the remote, barren corners of his vast empire. We’ve already taken the most valuable areas, according to the reports, and soon the war will come to a triumphant conclusion.
The reports are lying, obviously. What else is our government lying to us about?
Needless to say, the victory rally is cancelled – officially, ‘postponed until further notice’ – along with others around the country. I feel a bitter, unworthy satisfaction that I will not be the only one missing out on the spectacle.
Morning of the forth day since the raid, the wing commander’s adjutant enters the barracks and takes a position standing beside the open door. His left arm is confined to a sling, and his face shows evidence of battering. Otherwise, he is his old spit-and-polish self.
“Looks like we’re in for it now,” I mutter.
“Yes, the goddam court martial at last,” Bel says.
We stand by our cots awaiting the appearance of the military policemen who will haul us before the panel of judges, but no police come. Instead, the adjutant looks directly at me and salutes.
What did he do that for – is he mocking us?
Then the wing commander enters. He seems much reduced from his former self. His physical injuries are slight, but his bearing is uncertain and hesitant now. Clearly, he is not the man he was before the raid. His face is grim; he bears a sheet of paper in his hand. Something about that paper terrifies me.
He moves across the room, holding out the paper like a venomous snake. My stomach becomes an icy lump as I pray that the sheet is nothing more than a summons to the ‘goddam court martial.’ But it is a radio message transcript. My hands tremble as I read it.
