by Brian Bakos
“No trouble,” I say.
The crew chief pauses and looks up into my face.
“Oh, you’re the squadron leader, ain’t you?” he says.
His manner becomes a bit less defensive, but not quite friendly. I am stomping on his turf uninvited, after all.
“Yes,” I say. “Just thought I’d stop by to thank you guys for all your good work – keeping our butts in the air these past weeks.”
I’ve struck exactly the right cord. The crew chief’s eyes gleam with pride.
“Just doing our job,” he says.
“So, will you be going with us tomorrow?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He gestures toward the airplanes. “You don’t think I’d leave my babies at the mercy of you hotshots?”
We enjoy a good laugh. Like crew chiefs everywhere, he believes that the planes actually belong to him and that we fly them only with his indulgence. We pilots would disagree, but ... whatever works.
After this, the mechanics judge me to be an “all right fellow” and they treat me to lunch from the vendor wagon. Afterwards, I watch them prep our “babies” for the long eastward journey.
***
I return to a wonderful surprise at the barracks. Bekar is sitting in the chair beside my cot, thumbing a magazine. I fairly run to him from the doorway.
“Bekar! When did you get in?”
He rolls up the magazine and sets it on my night table.
“About fifteen minutes ago.” He shakes my extended hand. “Good timing, Dytran.”
He grasps a cane and thrusts himself up out of the chair. His leg is covered with a less bulky walking cast now.
“Ah, you’re getting better,” I say.
“Slow but sure,” Bekar says. “I’ve still got to wear this damn cast for quite a while, though.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“One of Father’s surgeon friends checked me out,” Bekar says. “He’s some big shot medical school instructor.”
“And?”
“He said the military doc did good work under the circumstances, but with some extra surgery I can get back pretty much full use of my leg.”
A burst of joy shoots through me.
“Great!”
“Yes,” Bekar says. “I asked if I could tap dance afterwards, and he said ‘probably,’ and I said – ”
“I know,” I interrupt. “You said: ‘Good, because I could never tap dance before.’”
Bekar laughs. “Guess I’ve worn that one out, huh?”
I grip his arm in a comradely fashion.
“You’ve made my day, Bekar. That’s wonderful news!”
Then I ask the big question.
“So ... did Gyn come with you?”
“Glad you asked.” Bekar says. “She’s in your lavatory freshening up.”
I nod. Bekar puts on his mischievous smile. I brace myself for some innuendo type comment, but he only gestures to the wider room.
“I wish she’d hurry and clear out,” he says. “We’ve got some exploding bladders here that need to be taken care of.”
I look toward the lads sprawled on their cots. I haven’t even noticed them before in my excitement. Katella and Beltran are not among them, which had makes the group easier to overlook.
“Do you guys know who this is?” I say.
“I’ve already made their acquaintance,” Bekar says. “They were suitably impressed.”
Everyone is munching on chocolate bars. Then a chocolate bar appears in my hand, too.
“Eat up, Dytran,” Bekar says, “you’ve lost weight.”
“Thanks!”
I tear off the wrapper and bite into the chocolate. It is the real thing, creamy and wondrous, nothing like the ersatz crap available with ration cards these days. It must have cost quite a bit on the black market.
The flavor wafts me back to a simpler time – when I still believed in the fundamental justice of life, when Stilikan was yet with us. I’ve not tasted anything like it in ages. Of course, Bekar offered me chocolate during the victory rally, but I’d refused to take it. I was still punishing myself for my screw-ups back then.
Bekar picks up the magazine from my night table and slaps it into my hand.
“Brought you a present, Dytran.”
I unroll it – the latest issue of Struggle, the Party’s weekly news publication – and stare at the cover.
“What?!” I gasp.
“That was my reaction, too,” Bekar says.
The Magleiter is on the cover, looking solemn and dramatic. His hand grips somebody’s shoulder as he looks deep into the person’s eyes ... it’s me! A caption along the bottom reads: A new leader from a new generation.
I flop down onto my cot, nearly landing on a half empty box of candy bars. I whip open the magazine to the lead story. There it is: Ket’s name in the byline along with a small photo of her. She looks very professional in her News Service uniform, but her eroticism cannot be fully concealed.
And there I am, too – several pictures worth – flying my plane, jogging at the head of the Raptor Aces, giving orders. I am the very image of youthful authority, like a scaled-down Alexander the Great.
The story begins:
Join the Magleiter in welcoming a new generation of leadership to the Fatherland’s service. Dytran commands the first squadron of Youth League Air Corps volunteers headed for duty at the front. His brother, Stilikan, one of the Air Force’s top fighter aces ...
“So, who’s this ‘Ket’ babe?” Bekar asks.
I look up. Bekar does not seem pleased.
“She works for the National News Service,” I say. “She’s making a documentary movie about us.”
“Uh huh.”
“I didn’t know anything about this, I – ”
Gyn appears on the scene now, exiting the lavatory to the appreciative glances of the boys. I stand up.
“Gyn!”
“Hello, Dytran.”
All heads swivel as she passes. She wears another pastel summer dress. It is impossible to image her wearing anything else. She is beautiful, wholesome, delicious. She gives me a peck on the cheek and I catch a whiff of summer fragrance.
“How nice to see you again,” she says.
Her manner is polite and formal. I want to grab her into my arms, like in the park, but restrain myself.
A frown creases her face. “You’ve been hurt.”
“Huh?”
She gestures toward my injured lip.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I say, raising a hand to my mouth. “It’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Gyn nods curtly, as if she knows exactly how I got the injured lip. Was that Ket’s real intention, to warn off other females?
“Well ... let’s go for a walk, shall we?” Bekar says. “Or, in my case – a hobble.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll meet you boys outside,” Gyn says.
She walks out the door, skirt swishing. Every head turns to follow her, as if attached by invisible strings. Bekar picks up the box of chocolate.
“Who’s the most important one here?” he asks in a low voice.
“I don’t know ... him, probably.” I gesture toward Sipren.
My own indifference surprises me. Before the slobe diving incident, I would have spoken with great pride about the members of my squadron. Now, they seem a mere footnote to my real mission in life – gaining revenge for Stilikan.
Bekar walks stiffly with his cane to Sipren’s cot and sets the box on it. He pulls out a chocolate bar.
“Here’s an extra one for you, mate,” he says. “See that the lads who aren’t here get some too, all right?”
“I will, thanks you, sir,” Sipren replies.
Gyn is standing on the edge of the assembly area gazing out at the main runway. Closer in, a wheelchair waits beside the door. Bekar flops himself into it.
“Could you take me to the training division?” he says. “I want to see if they
need a temporary ground school instructor.”
He gives his cast a frustrated whack.
“I’ve got to make myself useful somehow.”
“Sure thing,” I say. “That sounds like a great idea.”
Gyn moves in to join us.
“Maybe you can show Gyn around while I’m talking with those blokes?” Bekar says. “And later I thought the three of us could have dinner in town ... if that’s all right.”
“Good idea,” I say. “Count me in.”
He’ll be treating us to a top class restaurant, I am certain, the type of place that only Party big shots can afford these days. No ration card stew for us. Yet he’d asked me if it was “all right.”
I know what he meant by that. As squadron leader, I should really be spending this last night with my boys – taking them out for beer, bucking them up with a fine speech. But, frankly, I don’t care much about that sort of thing, not now, anyway. Maybe things will change after we reach the front.
Their betrayal during the slobe dive incident has cut me very deep. Everybody knows this, Bekar, too. The love and camaraderie I once felt for my squadron mates has gone up with the smoke of Bel’s wrecked plane. I’ll miss only Katella tonight, but he’ll understand my absence.
I grasp the wheelchair handles before Gyn can beat me to it and start walking. Bekar keeps up a pleasant chatter about sports, the latest movies, the weather, but Gyn remains cool and distant. What happened to the warm, passionate girl in the park?
I know what happened to her. She’s seen the magazine article and the picture of its author. She, too, is asking, “Who’s this Ket babe?”
I seems wise to redirect things into a more positive channel.
“When are you going to have the surgery done, Bekar?” I ask.
Gyn stiffens.
“Well ... the doctor has to wait a while yet,” Bekar said, “then he can go in and rearrange things. It’ll take more than one surgery.”
“So, a few weeks, then, a month?” I say.
Bekar clears his throat.
“Longer than that, actually,” he says. “Once this cast comes off, I should be able to fly again. I’ll be going back to the front.”
“Oh ... I see.”
“I decided the Fatherland needs me a lot more than the dancing club,” Bekar says.
We continue walking amid an awkward silence until we reach the training division headquarters. Thank heaven, it isn’t too far.
“Why don’t you wait out here, Sis,” Bekar says. “We’ll only be a minute.”
“All right,” Gyn says.
We enter the HQ building. The place is fairly busy with much coming and going. Bekar insists on propelling the wheelchair himself now.
We approach the adjutant’s desk and request an audience with the commandant. One is granted for twenty minutes later.
“Ah, enough time for a cigarette,” Bekar says.
We wheel to the nearby canteen and find a vacant table. The whole place is pretty vacant, actually. Bekar speaks in a low voice just the same.
“You know what’s behind this magazine article and your documentary film, don’t you?” he says.
“What?”
“They’re conditioning public opinion to accept a lower draft age,” Bekar says. “Seventeen will be the minimum soon. And after that, who knows?”
This is a troubling statement. I don’t know how to respond. Bekar takes a thoughtful drag from his cigarette. He blows a large smoke ring, then puffs a small one through the middle of it.
“Judging by the way she wrote, I’d say that Ket’s in love with you, Dytran.”
He gives me a solemn look, all trace of friendly banter has departed.
“I hope you make the right choices,” he adds. “There’s a lot more to life than just getting your rocks off with some hottie.”
I feel myself beginning to wither under his disapproval, but I rally quick enough.
“Thanks for the free advice,” I say. “I’m certain it’s worth every farthing.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then he softens. His old grin returns.
“You’re right,” he says. “Who the hell am I to tell you what to do?”
He reaches over and grips my arm.
“See you in while, huh?”
“Sure, Bekar.”
I get up to leave.
“Oh, and one other thing,” he says.
“Yes?”
“When you do go all the way with that special girl, Dytran, make sure it really is ‘all the way.’”
He mimes placing a wedding ring on his finger.
21. Pensive Stroll
Gyn is not waiting outside the building where I’d last seen her, and for a moment I fear that she has left us. Then I spot her standing fifty meters distant watching fighter planes take off from the runway on a training mission.
She makes a quiet and pensive figure out there by herself. The sky shines above her an almost painful blue, void of clouds except for wisps of high, icy cirrus. The fighters leap into the air like predator birds eager to rip and kill. The breeze plays through Gyn’s long, auburn hair and tugs at her skirts. She does not notice my approach.
She is flawless out here on the summer side of existence, a girl that any man would desire to make his own. I feel a pang of something akin to guilt. How can I lust after Ket while this ideal woman stands right here before me?
But why torture myself with such thoughts? The odds of my returning alive and whole from the front are not favorable. I have no delusions about that. It is better to just go with whatever comes my way during this final period of freedom.
This idea rings hollow the moment it occurs to me, though. Why does everything about girls have to be so complicated?
Gyn turns toward me. Her smile is melancholy and distant.
“It’s beautiful out here, in its way,” she says. “I can see why you love it.”
“That’s true,” I say, “but it’s nothing compared to the sky.”
“Ah ... the world of manly action. You were born for it, Dytran.”
“I wish I could take you up there, Gyn – sometime when this is all over.”
I take her hand. The motion seems right and natural; she does not pull away.
“Shall we go for a walk?” I say.
“Sure, Dytran.”
We stroll off together. In the distance, a repair crew is hammering on a bomb-damaged building, but the racket only highlights the glorious afternoon. Summer scents fill the air. Everything is fine for a while, but without Bekar’s continuous banter, the situation starts to become awkward. Gyn’s hand feels a bit rigid in mine, and I regret taking it so impulsively.
She is hard to read. What woman isn’t? Maybe her mood has nothing to do with me, but probably it does. I decide to tackle the issue that must be simmering below her quiet surface.
“You saw the magazine?” I say.
“Yes. Bekar picked up a copy in the train station when we got here. It was quite a surprise.”
“I was surprised, too,” I say. “I had no idea she was going to write something like that.”
Gyn nods. What the hell did that mean?
“I haven’t read the whole thing,” I say, “but it seemed pretty blown up. I didn’t recognize myself.”
“It’s not hard to figure out,” Gyn says. “You’re the type of boy that girls just naturally want to see as a hero. Ket is no different.”
Ket, the name has finally been uttered. I try to put things in perspective.
“She’s very ambitious,” I say. “She wants to build her career around the Raptor Aces story.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Dytran.”
All right, I won’t. Gyn relieves me from the burden of changing the subject.
“This war must end soon,” she says, “before we lose too much of our substance.”
“It will,” I say. “Once the current operations are successfully carried out, the Great Leader can brin
g the war to a favorable conclusion.”
She gives me a skeptical glance but says nothing.
“Why …” I say, “Field Marshal Angrift himself has just announced a major new victory.”
“Do you really believe that, Dytran?”
“Yes,” I say. “The Magleiter must know what he’s doing.”
She gives a sarcastic little laugh – very unbecoming.
“If the Magleiter knew what he was doing, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” she says.
I hear my breath whistle in past my teeth.
“Be careful what you say, Gyn! That kind of talk is dangerous.”
She looks up boldly into my eyes. “Will you inform on me, Dytran?”
“No ... of course not.”
She withdraws her hand from mine and gestures at the military atmosphere around us.
“Open your eyes, Dytran. the Great Leader has created everything – the war, the weapons, the dead and mangled boys. We’re living inside his mind.”
Gyn’s remarks shock me, but I am not really surprised. From the moment I saw her tight-lipped disapproval at the funeral I knew that she was a dissenter. It hadn’t mattered to me then, but that was before I’d met the Great Leader face to face.
“The Magleiter hates all this all as much as we do,” I say. “He never wanted this war.”
Again the cutting laugh.
“He wanted a war, all right,” Gyn says. “He just didn’t get the one he planned on.”
There is nothing I can say to get through to her. How could she possibly understand my feelings?
“People just keep going along with the madness,” Gyn says. “Me, too. I’ve been going along since I was a child – the Youth League Maidens and all that. Father had business interests to protect, so I had to be the ideal National Salvation Party rag doll.”
“What can an ordinary person do?” I say. “The NSP controls everything.”
Gyn stops walking and faces me directly.
“There’s plenty we can do, Dytran. A whole lot of us are planning things right now.”
A huge, black viper slithers into the perfect day, threatening us with poisoned fangs. Gyn seems like a totally different person. There is nothing soft about her now; she stands before me cold and hard, like an ice statue.
A great weariness is coming over me, my eyes burn. People disappear into concentration camps for saying far less than Gyn just did. When you come right down to it, she is talking like a race traitor. Why is she telling me all this?
Because she trusts me, as I trusted Bekar.
“Please don’t tell me anything more,” I say. “The less I know, the better.”
When we return to training HQ, Bekar is waiting outside in his wheelchair.
