by Brian Bakos
16. Change of Fortune
We leave the barracks and head across the air base toward HQ. It is a glorious spring afternoon perfect for a stroll with one’s girlfriend, but not for the grim journey that we are undertaking. Dank overcast would better suit our purposes. We do not exchange a single word but simply march along, as if to our execution.
The base no longer seems like a prison camp; rather, it now appears to be the freest, most beautiful location on earth. A few puffy clouds grace the sky, and a light breeze plays about. It is ideal flying weather. Grounds men are mowing the grass alongside the taxiways releasing a fresh, green fragrance in the process. A transport plane is taking off from the main runway. If only I could climb aboard it and escape my troubles!
But every step is taking me closer to my personal reckoning.
Much of the bomb damage to our HQ building had been repaired. As we enter the main door, workmen are scurrying about completing various tasks. I am struck by the bare appearance of the lobby. Its furnishings were destroyed in the air raid and have not yet been replaced. Where the Yuliac awards case once stood, only a blank corner presents itself now. The awards themselves have been erased from this world, like my brother.
The new adjutant meets us. He is a hard and tight-lipped man who looks as if he is keeping a bad temper in check. His demeanor seems to foretell unfavorable events. The old adjutant was an officious sort, puffed up with a sense of his own importance; I’d never liked him much, but now I rather miss him.
The three of us walk together down a hallway to the wing commander’s office, our steps echoing on the bare walls. The adjutant precedes us through the office door and takes a position off to the side, arms behind his back, legs slightly spread. Bel and I enter the room and jerk ourselves to attention, offering our best salutes.
“Squadron leader Dytran reporting, sir.”
“Deputy squadron leader Beltran reporting, sir.”
The wing commander rises slowly from his chair and acknowledges our salutes. I can see immediately that he, too, is a hard man – quite different from our reserved, easy-going former commander. He is tall and ramrod straight. The look in his eyes is forceful, like that of the Magleiter in the portrait hanging behind him.
“At ease,” he says.
We assume a more relaxed posture, though we are far from being truly ‘at ease.’ The wing commander steps from behind his desk and approaches us, limping slightly as he walks. He extends a hand to me.
“Please accept my personal condolences for the loss of your brother,” he says.
I take the hand with considerable astonishment; it is solid and powerful. The face looking into mine, while still handsome, is pocked with tiny indents, as if its owner has sustained injuries from an explosion. I’d seen such faces after the air raid.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, bowing my head.
The wing commander gestures toward a manila folder and some papers spread across his desk.
“I was just going over Stilikan’s records. He was one of our finest.”
He moves back to his desk. Bel and I exchange confused glances. Things are not going the way we expected. Does a tiny smile flicker across Bel’s face? The wing commander resumes his seat.
“You do recognize the gravity of the situation, don’t you?” he says. “And the possible consequences?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “We are prepared to accept the judgment of the court.”
The wing commander looks toward the adjutant.
“That will be all, thank you,” he says. “Close the door on your way out.”
“Yes, sir.”
The adjutant departs.
The wing commander shuffles the papers back inside the folder and moves it to the far reaches of his desk. He uses his good right hand to do this. His left hand is immobile; his entire left arm seems withered, as if it has endured severe injury.
“I was thinking of the overall situation of the Fatherland,” he says, “and of the consequences should we lose this war.”
“We shall not lose!” Beltran cries.
I can’t keep the shock from my face. This is rank insubordination! The wing commander’s eyes glisten.
“That’s right,” he says. His voice is quiet and tinged with menace.
“Please forgive my outburst, sir,” Beltran says. “I was out of line.”
The wing commander nods, and the danger passes.
“When I see young men like yourselves, my faith is renewed,” he says.
I cannot grasp where this situation is heading, so I just blank my mind as much as possible and wait for whatever might come next. I am instinctively drawn to the wing commander, but cannot allow myself the luxury of thinking that he is on our side.
“These are harsh times,” the commander says. “There is no room for soft attitudes.”
He glances at the closed door, then back towards us.
“If it was up to me, I’d drop the charges against you,” he says, “but it isn’t my decision. Certain ... traditional elements in the command structure want to make an example out of you two.”
He strokes his chin with his good hand. His manner softens a bit, as if he is recalling some youthful failures of his own.
“Of course, what you did was stupid,” he says, “but to be young is to be stupid, isn’t it? I think you’ve already learned a hard lesson.”
“Yes sir, that’s true,” I say.
“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Beltran says.
I feel myself cringe. What will come out of Bel’s mouth this time?
“Granted,” the wing commander says.
“With the war entering a critical phase, isn’t there some service we can render the Fatherland?” Bel says. “What good will it do to keep us in detention?”
“My own thinking exactly,” the wing commander says. “So ... myself and a few others have persuaded the authorities to offer you an alternative to a court martial.”
He rises from his desk. Despite his disabilities, his presence is truly commanding.
“Here it is, lads,” he says. “There is great need for support aviation in this war – artillery spotters, couriers, ammunition delivery – that sort of thing. Should you agree to a tour of duty at the front in this capacity, all charges against you will be dropped and your records will be expunged.”
I can’t believe what I am hearing.
“A-and, what of the others, sir?” I ask.
“This same offer applies to all members of the Raptor Aces squadron,” the wing commander replies.
A stunned silence fills the room. Bel finally breaks it.
“What about fighters, sir?” His voice is almost a whisper. “Can we qualify for those, too ... eventually?”
“Of course,” the wing commander says. “Perform your duties honorably, as I’m certain you will, and fighter training can be your next step – along with promotion to officer rank. This bump in the road will be forgotten.”
My whole life is flipping over right in front of me. I seem to be staring up from the bottom of a deep, open grave. High above, a rescuing hand reaches down toward me.
“Perhaps you’d like to talk this over,” the commander says, “give me your answers tomorrow?”
“No time required, sir!” Beltran comes to attention and salutes. “I volunteer.”
I give my own salute.
“Reporting for duty, sir!”
And that was that.
Two: The Battlefront
17. Feverish Preparations
The following weeks race by in hectic activity. The barracks fills up with returning squadron members, and our planes are flown back from the air base where they’d been transferred.
I can scarcely control my emotions when my airplane, #Y-47, is restored to me. Never had I expected to see her again. I run my hands over the gleaming metal fuselage, the wings, the shapely propeller. I know every rivet and curve.
Jealously takes hold as I think of another pilot flying my beauti
ful aircraft, as if he’s defiled my fiancé. The guy left a wad of chewing gum stuck to the rim of the cockpit – some good-luck ritual, probably. I tear off the gum and fling it away.
“It’s just you and me again, girl,” I murmur.
I embrace the cowling, its sheet metal still radiates warmth from the engine, and kiss it with a passion equal to that I’d felt for Gyn.
There are eight of us now from the original Raptor Aces: myself and Bel – then Sipren, Albers, and Bezmir, who all arrived on the same day. My heart leapt with joy when Katella turned up the following afternoon, recovered from his injury and in fine spirits. He reminds me so much of Bekar, in both his physical appearance and his genial personality.
Grushon and Orpad arrived last. I was not overjoyed to see these two, as they were part of the gang that threatened to attack me during the slobe diving incident. Grushon had been their leader, in fact.
I consider a ‘reeducation’ session with them; Katella offers to help, but I decide to let the sleeping dog lie. They both offer profuse statements of loyalty, and they observe exact discipline at all times. We’ll just have to see ...
Four of the boys do not make it. Maybe their parents intervened, or maybe they just had enough of the Raptor Aces. Their absence is the topic of some speculation, but we soon move on to other things. Four volunteers from the Blue Ice training squadron take over their spots. I don’t know these new lads very well, and I don’t really want to as I have other plans for them.
Wonderful excitement and purpose fill our lives. Air Force instructors work us hard – advanced navigation training, emergency procedures, night flying, rough field take offs and landings. I love it all, no matter how exhausting.
Each moment I spend flying is a gift from heaven. Every time I step out of my plane onto solid ground, I feel naked and diminished. I want to live in the sky. Thank God I’ve been allowed to return!
Then, on a particularly busy day – while I am in the middle of a preflight inspection examining Y-47’s rudder assembly – a startling intrusion occurs.
“So, how does it feel to lead the first squadron of youth volunteers?” a feminine voice asks from over my shoulder.
I spin around to see a young woman dressed in a National News Service blazer holding out a microphone and smiling broadly at me. Behind her, a movie camera is grinding away on a tripod attended by two guys in similar blazers. I’d been concentrating so much on my task that I’d not even noticed their approach.
“W-what?” I say.
I must look like an idiot. The girl laughs and signals to the lead cameraman, who shuts off his infernal machine.
“Sorry to startle you,” she says. “Didn’t they tell you we were coming?”
“No, I ... I don’t know.”
A vague recollection arises from my memory – one of the instructors mentioning that some “pain in the ass” film crew would be coming to the base. I’d filed this away as totally useless info, but now I have to deal with the situation first hand.
“We’re doing a special feature on the Raptor Aces,” the girl is saying. “We’re naming it: Youth Answers the Call!”
“Youth answers the call?” I say.
I can’t grasp what is going on. Am I supposed to be some sort of movie actor now?
“Yes,” the girl says, “it has a good ring to it, don’t you agree?”
“Well ... ”
“Please say you like it, Dytran. I thought it up myself, you know. This is my first big project.”
Bel approaches, eyeing the movie camera suspiciously.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“Uh, this is my deputy squadron commander, Beltran,” I say. “This is ...”
“Ket,” the girl says, extending a hand toward Bel. “Pleased to meet you.”
Now that my initial shock is over, and with attention turned away from me, I am able to observe things with a little detachment. I can see that Ket is a real ‘knockout.’ She is tall and fair with a lovely, intelligent face. The standard dark blazer she wears cannot disguise her excellent figure. She is, maybe, 20 or 21 years old. Just enough to have learned some interesting things about life.
Odd, I’ve scarcely thought about women at all lately. And when I do, it’s always about Gyn and our goodbye kiss in the park.
Bel is obviously swept away. The intense glower that so often covers his face is completely gone now; a radiant smile has shoved it aside. If there was ever love at first sight, this is it – at least on his part. But Ket’s manner is strictly professional. No doubt, she is used to being worshipped by every male she encounters, and Bel is only one of the crowd.
She withdraws her hand and looks back toward me. “So, Dytran, when can we do an interview?”
Her attitude seems to change, becoming warmer and more intimate. Is it possible that she is coming on to me, just a little? Bel seems to think so, judging by the darkening expression on his face.
“We’re pretty busy today,” I say. “We’ll be practicing rough field take offs and landings out by the auxiliary airstrip.”
“I know,” Ket says, “we’ve already placed cameras out there.”
“So, you’d better take it up with the wing commander,” I say. “As far as our availability for interviews, I mean.”
“I’ll do that,” Ket says.
She extends a hand to me. It is warm and firm, and it seems to remain in mine a tiny bit longer than necessary.
“Goodbye Dytran, I’ll be in touch ... goodbye Beltran.”
She walks off. The cameramen folds up their tripod and follow in her wake. Bel and I screw our eyeballs back into place.
All right, things need to be said. There are way too many competitive pressures between Bel and me already without adding Ket to the mix. We are heading into real danger soon, and we cannot afford undue friction – especially not about an older woman who probably has a list of boyfriends longer than my arm.
“Look,” I say, “as far as this movie thing is concerned, it’s all propaganda b.s. to me. We’ll just have to play along.”
“Uh huh,” Bel says.
“They’ve already assigned us roles,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean we have to stick with them afterwards.”
Bel looks confused. “What are you driving at, Dye?”
“As soon as we leave for the front, I’m dividing the squadron into two flights,” I say. “You’ll be in charge of one of them.”
“So, I’ll be your deputy, like before.”
I shake my head.
“No, not like before,” I say. “The two flights will be completely independent. You run yours any way you see fit. You won’t be taking orders from me.”
Astonishment replaces the confusion on Bel’s face.
“Why on earth would you do that?” he says.
“Because I need you,” I say, “and you need me. This is the only way it can work – Athens and Sparta, remember?”
Bel does not seem able to absorb what he is hearing. I try to smooth the way for him.
“I don’t suppose it matters a whole lot,” I say. “We’ll all be flying independently and getting orders from whoever’s in charge out there, but ... why don’t you take over the new lads, and one of the medics, too.”
Finally Bel understands. A smile explodes over his face, his eyes flash with pride.
“By God, Dytran, you’re the best!” He seizes my hand. “You’re the ... best!”
I try to shrug off the praise, but Bel won’t allow it.
“I’ll never forget this,” he says. “You can count on me – always. You’ve got a friend for life.”
“In it to the end, huh?” I say.
“In it to the end!”
***
As Ket stated, cameras are out at the practice area, grinding away as we make treacherous landings on the open fields. At first I find this to be distracting, and my performance suffers. Ket distracts me, too. I keep seeing her face, and my hand on the controls still tingles from h
er touch. But I overcome all this.
I am flying in for a particularly dangerous landing – dropping over trees onto a small cultivated field. The wind does not favor this approach, but the furrows are running my direction. If I try to land against them, the result will likely be a catastrophic nose dive into the ground.
Only my objective matters, all other considerations vanish – who I am, thoughts about girls, the “pain in the ass” camera crew standing off to the side. My airplane wraps itself tight around me until we are one being. I drift down ...
A real greaser! My plane roles toward the camera and comes to a stop barely ten meters away. I smile at the camera crew and wave; they wave back. Maybe I’ll get to like this movie star routine after all.
***
The others fall into an exhausted sleep immediately after lights out. Only I remain awake, and Bel. I can see the little pen light he uses for night reading glowing from his cot across the room.
We two are already ‘blooded’ war veterans, old men, almost, compared to the others. They seem like young children enjoying their peaceful rest, without a care in the world. Maybe this is why I feel such distance from them. This and the fact that we aren’t performing as a coordinated unit any longer but as individual pilots.
And there is the harsh memory of the slobe diving incident. Distrust tinges my feelings now. Only Katella retains my highest regard – and Bel, too. Despite his early attempt at treachery, he’s come around to reveal himself as a person of courage and depth.
I tried to get him of the hook with the wing commander, but he voluntarily jumped back on, preferring to state the full truth rather than accept my whitewashed account. And it took great strength of character to overcome his bitterness and reconcile with me.
I respect him a lot, but mixed in with this is a strong measure of wariness. I hope that granting him his own power base will solve a lot of problems. Or maybe it will only make things worse ...
Sleep is coming on now. My thoughts drift to the partisan bands infesting the battle front, the blood of our heroes staining their cowardly hands. My airplane hovers above them like a bird of prey, directing an artillery barrage onto their heads. I can hear their screaming. The swirling wind begins to roar.
The Great Leader will watch over my dreams again tonight, Gyn too. And now Ket.
18. The Grind Continues
The last few weeks before our departure bring an almost unbearable work load down on us. Every day that we manage to endure is its own triumph. Our instructors seem to delight in pushing us to near collapse.
