Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  “How’d it go?” I ask.

  “You’re looking at the new ground school instructor,” he says. “I begin as soon as the orders come through.”

  “Congratulations!” I say.

  Gyn wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his cheek.

  “That’s wonderful,” she says. “Why don’t you keep with it until the war’s over? You’ve already done your share at the front.”

  “Oh, let’s not go through that again, Sis,” Bekar says. “Come on, I want to celebrate.”

  22. Night on the Town

  The restaurant Bekar takes us to is very classy with excellent food, a good wine list, and neatly dressed waiters. He belongs in a place like this with his charm and elegant manners. Smoke from his top quality cigarettes blends with the atmosphere. He’s already pressed several cartons of these cigarettes on me to take to the front “just in case.”

  Of course, his father is a wealthy businessman, and Bekar receives a generous allowance; so he can afford such luxuries. But he’s also earned a spot here, as evidenced by his Air Force uniform and his injured leg.

  Not so the Party hacks.

  There are plenty of them here with their rosy cheeks and tailored uniform tunics buttoned tight to hold in their pot bellies. Parasites. Five of them, accompanied by beautiful girls, sit at a nearby table drinking champagne from ice buckets – no rot gut booze for them.

  “I’m telling you, Dytran, there’s no justice in this world,” Bekar says. “See those women at the next table? Talk about pearls before swine.”

  “Well, they have to survive, somehow,” I say. “And I’ve noticed one of them looking our direction.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too,” Bekar says. “Damn this cast!”

  Gyn gives him a disapproving look. “Please watch your language.”

  “Oh, all right, Sis.” He turns toward me. “She thinks I’m supposed to be a f... monk, or something.”

  I smile; Gyn doesn’t seem very pleased, though. The waiters serve us an excellent meal, and I enjoy it to the full. When will I eat so well again, I wonder?

  As we sip after-dinner drinks, a band starts playing dance music. I look over at Gyn. Throughout the meal, she’s remained cool and distant. Sure, she’s implied that Ket was no big problem, but her frosty demeanor speaks otherwise. Also, she might be worried that she confessed too much during our walk – and Bekar’s insistence that he’ll return to combat could not have brightened her mood. I want a thaw in relations.

  “Come on, Gyn, let’s dance,” I say.

  We head to the floor with several other couples. Gyn is a good dancer, but her style is too formal. She feels rigid in my arms and keeps more distance than is necessary. I’m not the world’s greatest dancer myself, and her stand-offish attitude does not bring out my best performance. I’m glad when the number ends.

  We return to the table where Bekar is on his second brandy. A warm, friendly glow attends his face.

  “Well, that was very nice,” he says. “Join me in a drink, Dytran.”

  A waiter places a whisky in front of me. The ice cubes tinkle merrily, in contrast to my deflated mood.

  “Thanks.” I take a healthy swig.

  One of the Party hacks from the next table approaches. He is younger than the rest, a minor official of some kind, no doubt, but he is plenty puffed up just the same. He bows to me and Bekar.

  “May I ask the lady for the next dance?”

  Bekar looks up at him with an amused little smile and shrugs.

  “I’d love to,” Gyn says.

  She gets up quickly and heads to the dance floor with him.

  “Looks like she’s sending you a message,” Bekar says.

  That’s true enough, and I’ll admit to feeling a pang of jealousy. But Gyn’s manner on the floor betrays her bravado – she is obviously not getting off on the guy. I catch her glancing my way to see my reaction. I grin and finish my drink. I am not going to play the game.

  “Why don’t you ask that girl at the next table to dance?” Bekar says. “She keeps ogling us.”

  I look over just as she averts her eyes. Things are starting to get raucous at their table with free-flowing booze and loud talk.

  “Naw,” I say.

  “Come on, do it for me,” Bekar says. “I can sit here and fantasize.”

  “I don’t want any trouble with those Party slobs,” I say. “Besides, why would I settle for hamburger when steak is available?”

  I nod toward Gyn on the dance floor. A broad grin spreads across Bekar’s face. He hoists his drink in salute.

  “Capital fellow!”

  Gyn returns from her dance, and we order another drink. Bekar is getting a bit tipsy.

  “Make this the last one, all right?” Gyn says.

  “Sure thing,” Bekar says. “Got to stay sober so I can drive – the wheelchair that is!”

  This seems very humorous to him, maybe with less alcohol it wouldn’t be quite so funny. I am in a good mood myself, but not so much as to be unaware of the changing atmosphere. The room is taking on a harder edge, fueled by the constantly flowing alcohol. Conversations are louder and more slurred, the laughter grows more challenging.

  “Yes, let’s finish up,” I say. “We’re getting an early start tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Bekar says, raising his glass.

  Another Party man approaches. This one is a bit older – a big, mean-looking guy who makes little show of respect. Worse, he seems more than a little drunk. He is second in the hierarchy of the neighboring table, I figure, behind the sliver-haired man with the reptilian smile.

  “Would mademoiselle honor me with the next dance?” he says.

  “Oh ... no thank you,” Gyn says. “We’re about to leave.”

  He glances at me and Bekar with something bordering on contempt. Damn, if he doesn’t remind me of Papa! He looks back toward Gyn.

  “Then perhaps you’d care to join us at our table,” he says. “We’ll see that you get home safely.”

  He takes hold of Gyn’s elbow. She recoils.

  “The lady told you she’s not interested,” Bekar says. “So why don’t you bugger off?”

  The Party man’s face darkens. “And just who might you be?”

  I am on my feet.

  “He’s a fighter ace,” I say, “and I’m on my way to the front myself. So why should we be impressed by a puss bag like you?”

  He lets go of Gyn’s arm, his mouth popping open like a beached fish. Then his rage starts to build, but not enough to try an attack. The Party might be behind him, but my fist is a lot closer. The silver-haired man intervenes.

  “Hey!” he cries sharply.

  The slob looks toward him. The silver-haired man snaps his fingers, and the slob retreats to their table without further prompting.

  “Well, on that friendly note,” Bekar says, “I suggest we get the hell out of here.”

  He drains his glass. I do the same. As I knock my head back, the silver-haired man catches my eye. He gives me a cold smile. I do not know who he is, but I have the uneasy feeling that I will be seeing him again.

  ***

  I accompany them back to their hotel. Bekar leaves me and Gyn on the sidewalk out front.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’ve got to go take a mean piss.”

  He grasps my hand.

  “So long, Dytran. We’ll see you off tomorrow, if they let us.”

  He propels his wheelchair through the glass doors and onto the lobby elevator.

  “That’s my brother for you,” Gyn says. “Always to the point.”

  “Yes, there’s only one Bekar,” I say.

  The night is fast advancing. It is time for good-byes. As usual, I can’t think of anything to say. Gyn picks up the ball.

  “There’s so much uncertainty these days,” she says. “The whole world is being cut from under us.”

  “Yes, that’s true, I’m afraid.”

  “Young people should
be out having fun,” Gyn says, “not going off to war and coming back ...”

  She gazes up into the darkening heavens, draws a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t want to fall in love with you under these circumstances, Dytran ... but I am.”

  She is tearing my heart. I want to take her in my arms and say that everything will be fine, that I love her, too.

  “Gyn, I – ”

  She presses a finger against my lips.

  “Please don’t say anything more, right now. Just come back safe to me.”

  She replaces the finger with her lips. Then she disappears inside the hotel.

  23. The Adventure Begins

  Dawn casts feeble light over us as we approach the railhead. A cacophony of bird song fills the dank air. Flat cars loaded with our partially disassembled aircraft stand at the siding along with a boxcar loaded up with spare parts and other equipment. A second boxcar awaits the Raptor Aces.

  The crew chief and his assistant stand nearby, looking relaxed and confident. We pilots try to look confident, too, and older than we are. We peer into our boxcar’s gloomy interior.

  “Ah, the lap of luxury!” Katella says. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a very long ride.”

  Everyone laughs, a bit too heartily. We are all anxious to leave, but our enthusiasm is tempered by the knowledge that we are leaving our youth behind us – or at least the others are. Mine has abandoned me some time ago.

  We’d been rousted up very early and marched to the siding after a hurried breakfast. We’d scarcely had time to use the lavatory or grab a quick shower. Now we hang around waiting for the loaders to finish their jobs.

  “Careful there!” The crew chief shouts at some poor conscript who is trying to secure one of the planes to a flatcar. “You’re putting too much stress on the airframe!”

  He walks along the track inspecting each one of his “babies.” All the while the birds keep up their infernal racket. I’ve always hated listening to them in the semi-darkness. Do birds make so much noise in full daylight?

  I’ve never liked early rising. There is always unpleasant business to attend at that time. People get up early for emergency situations, or because they can’t sleep during the night, or because they go off to jobs they hate.

  A little chug chug switching locomotive appears and couples itself to our cars. Thank heaven, its racket blots out that of the birds. The crew chief, finally satisfied with the shipping arrangements, climbs into the equipment boxcar with his assistant. The lads wait for me to enter our boxcar first, but I step aside and gesture toward the open door.

  “After you, gentlemen,” I say.

  Beltran remains with me while the others climb aboard. I speak to him softly.

  “Now’s as good a time as any to make the announcement,” I say.

  Bel nods. I take a final look around the gloomy morning atmosphere, then I board.

  The lads have spread themselves along the far wall of the boxcar with a gap in the middle – space reserved for me and Bel. The four Blue Ice boys sit together on the right side of the space, toward the front of the car. So, the squadron has already divided itself. The two groups talk and laugh among themselves.

  Bel and I stand before them side by side. The train jolts to a start nearly unbalancing me. Beltran grasps my arm to keep me from falling over. I feel oddly humiliated by the gesture.

  “All right, everybody, listen up!” I say.

  The banter stops, all eyes look up at me. I pause a moment to contemplate the decision I am about to announce. I am giving up half my command – a squadron that held together for an entire year is about to break up.

  But what of it? The squadron has only been a children’s game, and we are headed for the life and death maelstrom now. It’s time to embrace reality.

  I resume speaking.

  “When we get to the front we won’t be operating as a squadron any longer. We’ll go to our separate assignments and answer to whomever is in command. I have decided, therefore, that we need to break into smaller, more manageable units.”

  I look toward Bel. His eyes are impassive, his stance a formalized ‘at ease.’

  “From now on,” I say, “the Raptor Aces will divide into two equal flights. I will command one, and Beltran will command the other.”

  A confused chatter runs through the boys. I raise my voice above it.

  “Those in my flight will answer only to me,” I say. “Those in Beltran’s will answer only to him. The two commands will be totally independent.”

  “I’m staying with you, Dytran!” Katella pipes up.

  “Did I give you permission to speak, airman?” I say.

  “No ... sir.” Katella lowers his eyes to the rough floor planks.

  “The personnel assignments are as follows,” I say. “The former members of the Blue Ice squadron are now in Beltran’s flight.”

  Four blond heads draw together in excited whispering.

  “In addition, Commander Beltran will require a medic,” I say. “Is there a volunteer?”

  Bezmir and Sipren both shoot up their hands. I instantly realize my mistake; I couldn’t have better undermined my authority better if I’d planned on it.

  Katella stares daggers at the two medics. I turn toward Bel.

  “Commander Beltran, select a volunteer,” I say.

  Somehow I manage to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  “Bezmir, report to my flight!” Bel snaps.

  Do I detect a little empathy in his manner, or is it a note of triumph?

  “Yes, sir ... thank you, sir,” Bezmir replies.

  He is obviously embarrassed, though not so much as to wipe the grin off his face. I want this episode to be over, but my final act as squadron commander obligates me to address inquiries.

  “Are there any questions?” I say.

  “Yes, sir,” Katella says. “What will our flight be called?”

  Odd, I’ve never given this any thought. There is only one possible answer, though.

  “Mine will be named ‘Athens Flight,’” I say.

  I look toward Bel.

  “My flight will be named ‘Sparta,’” he says.

  I turn back toward the lads. “Anything else?”

  Silence – impossible to read.

  “That will be all, then,” I say.

  So, my squadron has broken apart along its fault lines. The Spartan flight gravitates toward the front of the car while my Athens boys move toward the back. An empty space yawns between us.

  This is a natural move, as the Blue Ice lads were already sitting toward the front. It was just a matter of them sliding over a little. But I cannot help feeling diminished by the arrangement. Katella shares my insight.

  “Looks like Bel has taken pride of place,” he says quietly in my ear.

  “I think he just wants to get there first,” I say.

  We chuckle mirthlessly. I think we are both right.

  ***

  After a creaky 10 kilometer trip, we arrive at the main rail yard for more waiting. Cars are added to our train. The little switcher engine chugs away and is replaced by a big, cross country locomotive.

  All the while, I keep a sharp lookout for Bekar and Gyn, but the only people in sight are yard workers or military guards. The security wrap is on us, and even Bekar’s charm does not seem able to penetrate it.

  Then, just as our train is pulling away, I see them standing behind the guards. I wave to them. Bekar waves his cane back in a jaunty salute and Gyn calls out to me with silent words:

  “I love you! I love you!”

  24. Long Ride East

  Time grind past as we approach our eastern frontier – the old eastern frontier, that is. Our new border now thrusts deep into the former territory of the slobe empire. The open door of our boxcar provides us with glorious summer views and aromas. Temperatures remain moderate.

  We have plenty of room, so we make the most of it, stretching out on our bedrolls to nap, read, or compose
letters. Conversation remains at a minimum as we each keep to our private thoughts.

  I pull out the magazine Bekar gave me and read the full story of my supposed heroism. I must admit to feeling rather puffed up at first, but the feeling quickly fades. I can’t afford such indulgences, I’m going into the real war. Generals and others who are outside the direct line of fire can afford such feelings, but I can’t.

  I’d barely slept the night before and am just drifting off with visions of Gyn before me when our cozy little world comes to an end. At the last station before the old border, a squad of infantry, complete with duffels and battle gear, clambers aboard and takes over the middle of the car. Athens and Sparta retreat to our respective sides to make room for them.

  The intruders are all privates, except for one sergeant who is the ‘old man’ of the group. He is, maybe, 24 but with a hardened aspect that makes him look much older. They bring their rough soldiers’ humor with them.

  “Hey, they’re robbing the cradle, now!” one of them says, waving a hand toward us.

  Bel stands defiantly, but before he can say anything, the trooper fronts him off.

  “Did you bring extra diapers, sonny?” he says. “You’ll need them at the front.”

  The soldiers all laugh. Bel turns crimson.

  “Why do you mock us?” he demands.

  The laughter stops. Bel is building into a towering rage, worse than anything I’ve seen before. The trooper gazes up at him with icy contempt. He’s killed men with his bare hands, you can see it in his eyes. Bel is not intimidated, though.

  I fear that he will attack any moment. I open my mouth to call him off, but curb myself. I am no longer Bel’s commander. Then I think: If that soldier kills Bel, wouldn’t that simplify things for me?

  I boot the unworthy sentiment out of my mind and stand up.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, “aren’t we all on the same side?”

  Heads swivel toward me. I compose my face into what I hope is a friendly smile. A tense silence ensues, then the sergeant pokes the trooper’s arm.

  “Go easy on the kid, eh?” he says.

  The soldier nods and turns toward his comrades. Their laughter and jesting resumes. Bel’s complexion begins returning to normal. He walks back to the Sparta corner and plops himself down.

  I approach the sergeant.

  “We’re going to the front for support aviation duty,” I say.

  “Yes, we saw your planes on the flatcars,” the sergeant replies. “Welcome to the war.”