by Brian Bakos
“Pansy” is the worst of the lot. He’s received this nickname because of his frequent references to that particular flower. As in:
“Where do you pansies think you’re going, a goddam tea party? Every slobe out there wants to shoot your butt out of the sky!”
or:
“I wouldn’t pay half a crown for the whole bunch of you pansies!”
or:
“What’s the matter, pansy, feeling a bit tired? The enemy’s not gonna give you any beauty rest, so don’t expect me to.”
Like the wing commander, he is a combat veteran, and he has the scars to prove it. The face he presents to us is stern and unyielding, but he has another face, too. I saw it once as he was observing us preflight the aircraft. He stood on the grass looking thoughtful and reserved, his eyes were tinged with sadness. He noticed me watching him, and the steel came back.
“Hurry up there, pansy!” he shouted. “Get the lead out!”
We fly every day, and many nights, too, regardless of weather conditions. We march in formation shouting patriotic slogans, we learn advanced first aid techniques, we do calisthenics. On and on.
Through it all, the filming of our ‘docudrama’ continues. The cameras are always grinding away – when we fly, when we eat, when we stand at attention with Pansy bellowing in our faces. Movie cameras, still cameras, any kind you want. I half expect to see cameramen in the barracks lavatory. The production crew sets up a dark room and editing lab in one of HQ’s vacant office suites, and they work there all hours of the day.
I have to take one of the movie cameras aloft in my rear cockpit one day. The operator refuses to wear his safety harness and constantly jostles around, maneuvering his camera this way and that like a machine gun. The set up is throwing off Y-47’s weight and balance, forcing me to make constant trim adjustments. I feel a demonic temptation to invert the plane and pitch the guy out.
After this experience, I pull rank and make sure that somebody else takes up the cameras in future.
There are compensations, though. Ket does all the personal interviews herself, speaking with each of us in turn, per the wing commander’s schedule. I have the pleasure of being interviewed twice. The first one is very brief, but the second is longer and much less hurried.
I scarcely remember the questions she asks, they are all just propaganda clap trap intended to impress the viewing audience. But when the camera switches off, she tarries for a little private conversation. This movie is her big break, she says. Her father has Party connections and got her in at the National News Service. But once there, she is on her own in a male-dominated industry.
Nobody wanted to bother with the Raptor Aces project. Her male colleagues are interested in war reporting, industrial documentary, and the real plum: a report on the Great Leader. So, our story fell to her by default, and she intends to make the most of it. We will launch her career into the big time.
She already knows about our circumstances, the slobe diving incident and all that, though she assures me that none of it will appear in the documentary to tarnish our image. By way of making conversation, I tell her about the air raid, keeping my remarks very general and within the bounds of my secrecy oath. She does not seem particularly interested.
Then, very casual like, I mention the victory rally and my encounter with the Magleiter.
“You met the Magleiter ... face to face?” she gasps. “He actually spoke to you?”
Her mouth drops open, and her eyes are wide. It would be a comical expression on a less beautiful face. I bask in her astonishment.
“Yes,” I say modestly. “It was a high point of my life.”
“I should say so, Dytran! What an amazing experience that must have been.”
Of course, I feel proud to tell her about this; it distinguishes me from the rest of her male admirers. But I have absolutely no idea how important my off-hand remark will become later on. She gets over her amazement and resumes her professional demeanor.
“Well, thanks for your time, Dytran. This has been most interesting.” She glances at her watch. “I’ve got another interview scheduled, have to go.”
“Good luck with it,” I say.
She walks rapidly away, granting me a quick backward glance.
There is a hard, driving edge to Ket, a sense that she doesn’t mind stepping over people to get what she wants. But I am too enraptured to pay much attention to that. I’m in love with her, like all the others.
***
Then there are the physical exams along with a whole slew of inoculations.
“Why so many needles?” Albers complains as we stand in line for yet another injection.
“I just got a physical a few months ago,” Bezmir says, “why do I need another one?”
“They want to make sure we’re healthy enough to get shot,” Beltran says.
The comment is lost on the others, but I think it’s hilarious. I am already developing the dark humor necessary to get me through the coming ordeal. And our service at the front will be an ordeal, no question about that.
The babies among us who still think it’s going to be a lark are in for a rude awakening. As I look down our line, I can’t help but recall the procession of mutilated Youth League members who used to haunt my dreams until the Magleiter expelled them.
The official news outlets have dropped their hollow cheeriness. Gone are the stories about non-stop victories and the inherent superiority of our fighting men – how any one of them is worth ten of the racially-degraded enemy soldiers. No more talk of triumphant returns by Christmas.
The propaganda themes are now about honor and sacrifice for the Fatherland. We are defending civilization from barbarian hoards. Our cause is just. The road ahead is fraught with peril, but we are destined to succeed. The alternative to victory is annihilation and a new dark age.
How difficult it must be for the heroes at the propaganda ministry to shift gears like this. But our casualty rate is simply too enormous to conceal. The flood of wounded men cramming into every hospital speaks a different language than that of non-stop triumph. It is a rare family that does not count dead and injured among its young men.
How does Mama feel about all this, I wonder? She’ll never get over Stilikan’s death, and now her only remaining son is also going off to the war.
I’d reported for duty without giving her a moment’s thought; my only regret was that Bel had beaten me to volunteering first. I think about Mama now, though. I can see the tired face, the premature gray hair – like the other bereaved mothers I’ve seen, like Piotra’s mother. I want to embrace her and say that everything will be fine.
She’ll be proud of me. I’ll exact justice for Stilikan.
***
Three days before our scheduled departure, we assemble on the parade ground – along with a batch of regular recruits – to take the soldiers’ oath. The cameras roll as we raise our right hands and repeat after a senior officer:
I swear by God this sacred oath: That I shall render loyal service to the Magleiter, leader of our nation and supreme commander of the armed forces. As a brave soldier, I shall always be ready to give my life for this oath.
An eerie silence follows. The sky has taken on a dark hue and clouds rush past in an unseen wind. It seems to be in a different level of reality. We all realize that we’ve crossed a point of no return.
The frenzy of activity stops now. Our instructors move off to abuse new batches of trainees. Pansy softens enough to wish us all good luck. Our airplanes receive well-earned maintenance, and we enjoy the luxury of sufficient rest.
We move into the calm before the storm.
19. Youth Answers the Call!
The camera crews run off to other assignments, and the film editors return to the capital to finish their work on Youth Answers the Call! Soon, audiences in theaters across the nation will be watching our story. Only Ket and one or two others remain. She invites me to a “special preview” of the movie before she, too, departs
for the capital city.
“It’s only a rough cut,” she explains, “but I think you’ll get a good idea of what the final production is going to be like.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to conceal my excitement – not about the movie, but about Ket.
***
It is already getting dark when I arrive at HQ. The place is largely deserted, and a National News Service car is parked out front with somebody snoozing behind the wheel. I enter the building and make my way toward the production company office suite. As always, I feel a jolt at the sight of the blank lobby corner where the Yuliac awards case once stood.
The office suite is cleared out now, except for a few folding chairs and a battered, camouflage-painted projector that I recognize as the one we used to watch training films with. A white bed sheet spread taut across the far wall serves as a movie screen.
Somebody is threading a reel of film into the projector while Ket looks over his shoulder. She isn’t wearing her standard blazer now but is dressed casually in loose-fitting blouse and slacks. As always, her hair and makeup are perfect.
She turns toward me as I walk in.
“Dytran!” she says, a bit too brightly. “How good of you to come.”
How good of me to come? I’d have walked barefoot over broken glass to see her. She looks genuinely pleased, though, in an almost childish way.
“Please sit down,” she invites, “we’ll only be a minute.”
This is a Ket I’ve never seen before, nervous and unsure of herself. The strong, take-charge woman I’ve grown accustomed to seeing must have left on holiday. Of course ... she is showing her pet project to its first audience, baring her soul, as it were. She’s feeling a lot of pressure, as indicated by her strained smile and fidgeting hands.
I determine to compliment her efforts with glowing language, even if the movie itself is horrible.
I sit down on one of the folding chairs and look about the vacant office with approval. My concern had been that Ket would invite others to the screening, a whole room full of us ogling her like kids at a toy shop window. This arrangement is much better.
The projectionist finishes threading the film, and things get better yet.
“That’s fine, thank you,” Ket says to the guy. “Why don’t you go rest in the car? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
“Sure thing, Ket,” the guy says.
He glances my direction. Do I detect a little smirk on his face? Then he is out the door.
“Well, I guess we should get started,” Ket says. “The finished movie is going to be longer than this – we’re cutting in some stock footage. And there’re the shots we took yesterday – some really good stuff. And your wing commander gave the most extraordinary interview this afternoon. I haven’t decided yet how to work it in ...”
Her voice drones on, nervous and edgy. If anyone else talked like this, I would be annoyed. But anything Ket has to say is all right with me. Finally, she switches on the projector and turns out the overhead light.
Then, to my great pleasure, she takes a chair right next to me. My fears that she’d remain standing in the back of the room prove unfounded. I settle down to watch the film, leaning a slight bit in her direction. The old projector rattles away.
Then a magnificent aerial vista appears – the Raptor Aces squadron maneuvering among towering cumulus clouds. I edge forward in my seat, momentarily forgetting Ket’s presence. I recognize the scene. It was filmed from the back of my own airplane.
“This is fantastic!” I cry.
“Y-you like it, then?” Ket says.
“It’s wonderful,” I say without a trace of exaggeration. “I love it.”
Up on the screen, we continue our stately progress among the clouds, like glorious knights of the air. Then other flying shots of us cut in, including a close up one of me in left profile.
I remember this incident well. I’d turned and shouted at the cameraman in the back of Sipren’s plane to get the hell away from me. That part has been deleted, though. There is no sound, but in my mind I hear a thunderous musical score.
“The sound track goes in later,” Ket says. “And there’ll be voice over narration, too.”
We’ve landed now and are taxiing our airplanes into a neat row. Then a low-angle shot of us running. We assemble in line and snap to attention, eyes right. There’s me at the end, looking direct into the camera. I recall being bothered by a large pimple on my cheek that day, but from this angle it isn’t visible.
“Here’s where the title fades in,” Ket says. “Youth Answers the Call!”
No question about it, Ket and her crew really know their stuff. They’ve transformed the daily grind of our training regimen into something dramatic and exciting. I almost feel nostalgia for those long days of physical exhaustion and verbal abuse from Pansy.
Our various interviews are cut in amongst the action sequences. All of us look impossibly young, brimming with enthusiasm and bravado. I know why. We’re talking to Ket, though she’s remained discreetly off camera.
As the movie progresses, Ket draws closer to me. Then her hand is in my lap, her fingers interlace with mine. Then my arm is around her shoulder. It is all excellent and natural – a fit accompaniment to the wonderful images being projected on the wall.
Time seems suspended in a perfect world, I hope fervently that the movie will never end. But it does. Only blank light shows against the bed sheet now. I turn toward her.
“You did great – ”
She fairly lunges at me, like a jungle cat. Her mouth crushes against mine, her tongue probes. I rocket into an impossible realm of erotic ecstasy. She seizes my crotch and grinds hard. Unbearable pain and pleasure shoot though me.
Then she pulls away, giving my lower lip a final, sharp little bite.
“Ow!”
She stands up into the glaring beam of the projector, towering above me like some warrior goddess. The film stock has run its course and is flapping around loosely in the spinning reel.
“Just a little something to remember me by,” she says.
She moves to the projector and switches it off. After a moment of darkness, the overhead light comes on. I remain in my chair, shell shocked. I move a finger to my lip, it comes back with a smear of blood. Ket begins packing up the reel.
“I know how you boys feel about me,” she says. “You all think I’m some big ‘woman of the world,’ don’t you?”
She looks questioningly at me. Her gaze is bold and direct, every trace of the insecure little girl has vanished.
“Well ... we ...”
She gives a small, tinkling little laugh. Lots of men would kill to hear it.
“Let me tell you, Dytran,” she says. “I’ve never been with a man before. Nobody seemed worthy ... until now.”
A wicked little smile crosses her lips.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “You’re a virgin, too, right?”
I feel my face burning; I must look like a human beet. Ket laughs again.
“We could learn a lot from each other,” she says.
She shoves the reel into its can and replaces the lid. I want to say something worldly and sophisticated, but I just sit rooted in my chair.
“Uh, don’t you have to rewind that film?” I say.
“I’ll do that later.”
She places a card on the projector stand.
“Here’s my business card,” she says. “My home address and phone are on the other side. Write when you have a chance, and call me when you get back?”
“I-I will ...”
She is at the open door now. “Goodbye, Dytran. Best of luck to you.”
Her rapid foot steps fade down the hall. I move to the projector on legs that are not quite as strong as they should be. I pick up the card and study it reverently, like a piece of holy scripture.
When I stumble out of HQ, automobile tail lights are disappearing down the road toward the main gate. The night is turning windy, and a storm se
ems to be brewing up – but to me, everything is gloriously perfect. I make it back to the barracks on autopilot, scarcely paying any attention to the route. My whole being is taken up with Ket.
Beltran is the first to greet me.
“What happened to you?” he says. “You’re grinning like that slobe kid that tried to kill me.”
I only grin wider. Even Bel looks beautiful this evening.
“Nice busted lip you’ve got,” he says. “It’s a real improvement.”
20. Final Day
We have little to do but loaf during our last day on base. Our kit bags are packed and our final letters home have been written. My squadron mates have recovered their strength from the previous days of rest and are anxious to leave at first light tomorrow.
As for myself, I am consumed by thoughts of Ket. Memories of her bold advances torture every moment. I feel ready to kill in order to be at her side again. I actually find myself wondering how I could desert and chase after her. This is madness, of course. Deserters get the firing squad. But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, if only I could be with her again.
Finally, I meander over to the maintenance area. Perhaps the sight of aircraft can take my mind off Ket for a while.
A vast, curved ceiling arches overhead as I walk into the hangar. As always, I have the sense of entering a cathedral as I approach the aircraft inner sanctum. Everything is new and clean, rebuilt since the raid. The air carries the scent of machinery and lubricant – the fragrance of adventure.
The mechanics are off in a corner, enjoying their lunch break. Our airplanes stand about the hangar, resting uneasily on their landing gear. They seem anxious to get moving, too. All of them sport radios now along with fresh coats of camouflage paint. A few are minus their engines, which would be in the workshop receiving final overhaul.
I pause by Y-47. My airplane looks proud and aggressive in its new livery, yet oddly reserved as well. I lay my hand upon her flank. It is a moment of almost religious significance.
“What’s the trouble, lad?” someone asks.
I turn to see the crew chief striding toward me. He is a squat, muscular man of about 40 dressed in standard coveralls.
