by Brian Bakos
“Good work, number 2!” Stilikan’s voice crackled over the radio.
Bekar grinned. Nothing could stop him today! These slobe pilots weren’t bad, but no real match for Stilikan’s aces. And Stilikan had let him score the victory when he could have taken it for himself. That was so much like him – share the glory, conserve his ammo so as to keep fighting as long as possible.
With all the inflated egos around the Air Force, it was great to serve with a commander who led through sheer competence.
More enemy fighters tumbled from the sky, their pilots blasted to pieces or incinerated in their cockpits. Two parachutes bloomed. Number 10, one of the new guys in the squadron, dove after the parachutes, meaning to kill the men hanging from them.
“Disengage, number 10!” Stilikan shrieked. “Goddammit, disengage!”
Number 10 swooped away from the helpless men dangling under the silk – one could easily imagine the poor bastards’ relief. Everyone knew of Stilikan’s hard and fast rule against shooting bailed-out enemy pilots, but this idiot must have had his blood up and didn’t remember.
“When we get back, your ass is mine,” Stilikan said in the cold, measured voice that portended great threat.
Bekar knew exactly what that meant. It wouldn’t be the first time Stilikan used his fists to ‘reeducate’ insubordinate pilots. But after he’d knocked the guy down, that would be the end of it. There would be no official action, not for a first offense. And once they’d been reeducated, nobody ever committed a second offense.
The last few enemy fighters were hightailing it back home now, skimming low over the ground trying to shake off pursuit.
“Let’s get the big ones,” Stilikan said.
He closed in on the stern of a large, twin-engined bomber. But before he could shoot, a gun in the tail of the bomber opened fire, raking his aircraft with bullets.
Stilikan pulled away.
“Watch it guys,” he said, “these bandits have stingers!”
This was a worrying development. During his time at the front, Bekar had witnessed a steady improvement in enemy equipment and tactics. Now they had up gunned their standard medium bomber.
But another development was of more pressing concern.
“You’re trailing smoke, Number 1,” Bekar said over the radio.
“I know, I’m losing oil pressure,” Stilikan said. “Number 3, take command. I’m returning to base.”
“Yes sir!” Number 3 replied.
All around, the squadron was taking the measure of the bombers, altering tactics so as to avoid the new tail guns. Soon the big planes started to fall.
One of them directly below Bekar had not been able to dump its full bomb load, and, hit by a torrent of shells, it went up in a gigantic explosion. A piece of wreckage punched through the fuselage of Bekar’s aircraft, striking his leg.
“Ahhhh!” Bekar shrieked.
Unimaginable pain erupted throughout his body, he was lost in a bright wilderness of agony.
This is it, I’m going down!
In the glare, he could see the faces of his mother and father, and sister Gyn. Then the girl he wanted to marry but had been too shy to ask. His plane was heading down, he wanted to give it full throttle, a death dive into the ground. Anything to end the terrible pain.
“Pull up Number 2, pull up!” It was Stilikan shouting over the radio.
Instinctively, at the sound of the commander’s voice, Bekar eased the stick back. His plane leveled out.
“How bad are you hit?” Stilikan said.
“It’s my leg, sir,” Bekar said.
The pain had abated somewhat, replaced by the vast numbness of shock. Bekar struggled to remain conscious. Stilikan was flying beside him now.
“Stay with me,” Stilikan said, “we’re heading back.”
“Aye sir ....”
“Don’t pass out on me now!” Stilikan cried. “Use your medical kit.”
Bekar fumbled the morphine syringe out of his medical kit and stabbed it through his flight suit into his injured leg. Sharp pain blasted through him followed by blessed relief. The agony retreated into the puffy clouds, replaced by a glow of well being.
Wouldn’t it be nice to just go to sleep and forget this world of suffering?
“Take the inhalant!” Stilikan ordered.
It was like the voice of God coming over his headset. Bekar could never have disobeyed. He pulled a capsule out of the medical kit and broke it under his nose. He breathed in deeply.
An instantaneous burst of awareness struck him, as if a mighty hand had slapped his face. He was fully alert to everything around him now, his mind absolutely clear. He felt his heart race. His upper body seemed supercharged, while his lower portions were numb.
What was in that capsule? If the enemy couldn’t kill him, these drugs certainly could.
He looked to his left and saw Stilikan’s plane flying quite nearby. Stilikan was staring at him intently. Bekar managed a feeble thumbs up. Stilikan shot one back.
They flew on for some time together, until they’d crossed the battle lines into ‘friendly’ territory. Bekar noted that his fuel consumption rate was much higher than normal. A fuel line must have been damaged in the explosion.
And all the while, the smoke streaming from Stilikan’s plane was getting worse. Then open flames began shooting from the engine.
“I’m bailing out!” Stilikan radioed. “Return to base immediately – that’s an order!”
He pulled his airplane into a graceful, slow-climbing left turn. Then he flung back the canopy and jumped out over the right wing. He made it look easy. As he floated beneath his parachute he waved jauntily, as if he was having a wonderful time. Bekar circled about, taking careful note of the location. Then he radioed an ‘airman down’ report.
Despite Stilikan’s order, Bekar loitered in the area as long as possible, until his fuel became dangerously low. His engine quit near the base, forcing him to glide into a dead stick landing.
***
It is fully dark now, and the street lights are on. One of them casts gray illumination over Bekar’s face. The face is pale, the eyes dead. Bekar fumbles a cigarette out of his pack, and I light it for him.
“What happened then?” I hear myself ask.
“One of our ground units found him about two hours later ... but a partisan band got to him first,” Bekar says. “Those bastards are thick as flies behind our lines, and ...”
He swallows hard, takes a deep drag from his cigarette. Then his words come rushing out in a torrent.
“They killed him, Dytran! Tied him to a tree and butchered him like an animal. Thank God he was cremated – his mother couldn’t stand seeing him the way he was!”
He is crying freely now. I grip his shoulder and try to offer whatever comfort I can. My own tears have all been used up. Bekar’s story holds no surprises for me as I had already guessed the general content much earlier.
All that remains in my heart is a black pit filled with hatred. I recall the face of the slobe boy lying in the grass, grinning up at me. I want to stomp my boot into it!
Bekar regains control of himself.
“Well ... that’s the full story,” he says. “I’d like that drink now, if you don’t mind.”
13. Rally for Victory
I stand beside Bekar’s wheelchair in the front rank of the section, the best possible place on the whole airfield. Around us are many more of the ‘honored wounded’ standing on crutches or sitting in wheelchairs. They sport bandaged heads, plastered legs, arms in slings. Most are only a few years older than me, some not even that, but they all seem of an entirely different generation.
None of these combat veterans looks too badly hurt, and all their injuries are in mentionable places. Soon the men will be good as new, or almost. In no way would I question their heroism or their right to attend the rally, but I can’t help wondering how it would look to bring some of the most severely mangled Youth League members here.
What would the che
ering crowd make of that?
At night, those shattered boys march through my dreams on the stumps of amputated legs, trailing intestines behind. An endless stream. I fall in line with them, moving across the bloody plain toward a barren tree looming on the horizon. A howling, swirling wind, like a tornado, lurks behind us, urging us on.
As the tree draws closer, I can make out a figure tied to its trunk. It is ... no, it can’t be ...
Goddammit!
What am I doing here, idle and useless to my country? Any fool can push a wheelchair. My dear brother has been murdered, and I am doing nothing about it.
I want to find some slobe and beat him to a pulp, but there are none here, of course. That hag who attacked me at the railway station – I should have snapped her arm like kindling!
No ... save it for the real enemy.
They are far to the east, prowling the woods in their partisan bands, looking for defenseless victims. Lousy cowards! I should be out there hunting them down, tying them to trees, ripping their guts out. I should be keeping the promise I made to Stilikan all those years ago on the streets of our hometown.
Bekar notices my agitation. He reaches over and grips my arm.
“Pretty good show, eh?” he says over the blaring music and the roar of thousands.
I nod.
There are lots of healthy Youth League members here today, marching in their crisp uniforms, banners snapping in the wind and drums rolling. They believe they are immortal, just as I did when I was their age and strutting around in formation. Pack of young fools!
Army units rumble past in the latest tanks and in lorries towing artillery pieces. We all swell with pride at the display of military brawn. Soon these men will be reporting to the war front where the enemy will taste their steel.
Armored cars swarm by like a pack of wolves, then armored personnel carriers with open tops and eight large wheels instead of the usual tracks – stealthy models designed for sneaking up on the enemy. A dozen infantrymen grin at us from inside each one.
I want to rush out to them and beg, “Take me with you!”
Fighter planes prowl overhead, circling the airfield like diligent hawks. No sneak attack will find us unprepared today.
After these manly displays come rousing speeches by the Party big shots, exhorting the troops to ‘maximum effort,’ and ‘devotion to the Fatherland.’
How many of these pot-bellied heroes have sons in combat? Precious few, I’d reckon. Fine for our best young men, like Stilikan, to make the ultimate sacrifice while their own kids get draft deferments or ‘serve’ in cushy administrative jobs far back from the fighting. There is no blinking at the fact – rot had taken hold in our state.
Insulated at my school and within the Raptor Aces, I’d scarcely noticed it. But out in the wider country I cannot avoid seeing and hearing about the rot. It is in the hushed voices of the mourners at Stilikan’s funeral, in grim conversations on the street, in the smug appearance of Party leaders zipping by in their fancy cars.
The corruption and abuse of power are everywhere – ordinary people survive on the slim calories from their food ration cards while the well-connected dine at fancy restaurants. People wear last-year’s tattered outfits while the leaders strut about in tailored uniforms – on and on.
The grumbling comments almost always end with the lament, “Ah, if only the Great Leader knew!”
But the Magleiter can’t know. He is too busy commanding our military effort from his headquarters far to the east, while those governing in his name corrupt our state. Well, one day this war will end, and he will return to clean out the rats’ nest. I want to help in that effort.
Why didn’t I notice all this crap before? Because I was a stupid kid, that’s why. But I’ve ‘aged ten years’ over the past weeks, as Mama put it, and I no longer embrace idiotic fantasies.
Bekar sits in his wheelchair, bored and glassy-eyed. It’s easy to imagine what a fighting man like him must think of the ‘heroic’ speeches issuing from the review stand. I look upon him with warm affection. In many ways, he seems to compensate for the elder brother I have lost, just as I serve as a kind of Stilikan replacement for him.
He is smoking quality cigarettes that few can afford these days. His family is well off, so he can purchase such luxuries on the black market. And he also possesses a generous heart. He brought along a supply of cigarettes and chocolate which he passed around to the other veterans. We gained our front row spot by these means, though I’m certain this was not Bekar’s motive.
I owe so much of my recent education to him. As on the train yesterday ...
***
We sat at the back of the coach on a hard wooden bench. Not very luxurious, but it did offer extra room for Bekar to stretch out his leg. We’d brought some cushions, so we weren’t too bad off. An elderly couple snoozed in the seat ahead of us, and across the aisle lay a rope coil piled over with luggage. This seemed as safe a place as any for a discussion.
You had to be careful about what you said and to whom you said it; pretty much anyone could be an informer. Letters, phone calls, private conversations were all subject to intrusion. And forget about sending a telegram unless you had only the brightest, most mundane things to say. I felt a moment of hesitation. Could Bekar be trusted – how well did I know him, anyway?
I pushed the thought out of my mind. For months Bekar had covered Stilikan’s back, protecting him from enemy fighters. He’d been with my brother near the end, still looking out for him despite severe injuries. If I couldn’t trust Bekar, then the world was truly an evil place, and I was better off making a quick exit from it.
So, ignoring the oath of silence I’d been forced to swear, I told him all about the air raid on our base in full detail. How had the enemy managed to reach us?
“Those bombers must have been stripped-down,” Bekar said, “extra fuel, less armor plate, fewer guns and crewmen.”
“They had the belly gunners, all right,” I said. “One of them almost shot me.”
Bekar grinned and slapped my leg.
“Don’t let that happen! Gyn would be really mad. You know, I think she likes you.”
“Uh ... well ... that’s nice.”
I felt my face redden a bit. Bekar’s grin widened, then he turned serious. He lowered his voice.
“And the slobes took back a lot of ground in the northern sector,” he said. “You heard about that?”
“The information service mentioned a ‘limited strategic withdrawal’ in the north,” I said.
Bekar grunted sarcastically.
“It was a lot worse than that,” he said. “Piotra kicked our butts and ‘strategically withdrew’ us hundreds of kilometers.”
“I-I didn’t know.”
“Things have settled down,” Bekar said, “and the northern sector isn’t all that crucial, anyway. The big issues will be determined in the south. There’s a huge buildup taking place there on both sides. All hell is going to break out soon.”
He lit a cigarette then cracked open the window which increased the noise level inside the car. He leaned in close to me and lowered his voice further.
“It’s like this, Dytran, we win through or we’re finished. Either way, you can forget the ‘conquering living space’ talk. We’ll have to negotiate a peace. If we do well in the next campaign, we can get a better deal. If we lose ...”
He let the thought trail off. I swallowed hard. Things were far worse than I’d imagined. Bekar’s remarks were a direct contradiction to the official story, borderline treason, actually.
“And you can forget all the ‘inferior race’ crap, too,” Bekar said. “Piotra is an intelligent, capable enemy worthy of respect. He doesn’t quit. We still have the edge, but he’s catching up fast – and we’re badly outnumbered.”
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window.
“We pilots are beginning to understand this, but the foot soldiers still buy into the Party line. Can
’t say as I blame them, the poor devils have nothing else to hang onto.”
“Well ... what about their eastern border?” I said. “There’ve been reports that a war might break out there, too.”
“We’re all counting on that,” Bekar said. “If the slobes face a two-front war, they’ll have to make peace with us. Or, at least we hope so.”
That was the end of our conversation for quite a while. We both remained silent with our own thoughts. Mine turned toward the final letter I’d received from Stilikan.
His earliest letters from the front were loaded with typical banter, high spirited and teasing – the written equivalent of smacking the back of my head. But over time the letters became much more somber. The last one was downright depressing, filled with sarcastic commentary. I’m surprised it got past the military censors.
One remark was particularly striking: “As I told you before, Little Bro, everything is a pee cave.”
At the time, I thought it was just a crude joke. It conjured up an image of a dark, smelly location where people went to urinate. But now I wasn’t so sure. Could ‘pee’ actually be an initial? Was he trying to say, in coded language, that everything was a ‘Plato cave?’
I remember him talking about Plato’s cave during one summer break when he was home from school. I didn’t pay much attention, he was always trying to impress me with his far-ranging knowledge. But I do recall that Plato’s cave was a realm of illusions where prisoners saw only the shadows of things while convinced that they were actually viewing reality.
Is that where we are all living?
14. The Unimaginable
A spectacular air show climaxes the rally. Dive bombers hurtle from the sky, sirens wailing, to drop their dummy loads with lethal precision. Medium bombers make simulated ground attacks. Mock dogfights swirl overhead. Transport planes drop paratroopers. Once the men land, they take up battle positions around the airstrip. The crowd’s roaring complements the mighty voice of aircraft engines.
I cheer my lungs out with all the others. It is impossible to believe that anyone can beat us with such power at our disposal.
“That’s what we need!” Bekar cries. “Piotra will never know what hit him!”
A squadron of fighter planes scorches by at low level. Their noise is deafening. Their pulsating heat washes over us like the breath of warrior gods. The pilots inside the sleek, lustrous machines wave to us. I wave both my arms in reply and yell my head off.
