by James R Benn
Colonel Harding felt the same way, and I’d seen him live by his words. So even though this was a different part of the world and a different army, not to mention a unit of women instead of men, I did my best to follow their advice.
I still had that apple in my pocket, a little bruised and worse for wear, but so was I. I cut pieces and offered them to the wounded pilot, who smiled bravely and took one. Kira took the rest and passed the pieces around, followed by a small loaf of black bread and the water. I took a small piece, and suddenly thought of holy communion, a strange remembrance here in godless Russia.
I smiled, looking up into the night sky, feeling a part of something greater than me, greater even than my search for Big Mike or a murderer. It was a fight for what was right. I’d been in France and saw what the Nazis did there. From what I could make of Russia, and how Russians felt about the Nazi invaders, it was even worse here. Much worse.
Kira and the others began to sing softly, a low, lonely, mournful song. I didn’t understand the words, but they were beautiful, and as they sang, I sat on the grass, closing the circle of bodies gathered by their wounded comrade.
“Kapitan,” Kira said, as one of the others shook my shoulder. They were all up, heads craned toward the western sky, listening. Someone had draped a blanket over me, and I threw it aside as I joined them, trying to pick up the sound of engines. It was still night, but a thin line of dawning red lit the eastern horizon. I heard the distant, light drone of engines, and everyone burst into action.
Two women ran off to light the signal fires, and in minutes the fuel-soaked wood was burning brightly. Two others grabbed medical kits, while Kira and I scanned the sky, the sound growing louder.
“Look!” I said, spotting a pinprick of light in the sky. Kira pointed at three Po-2s circling the field. If they weren’t landing, the pinprick of light following them was bad news.
Fire.
Everyone moved into action. Trucks were started and driven deeper into the cover of the woods. Jerrycans were swiftly carried into the trees as well, minimizing the chance of a crash landing turning into a conflagration. I stayed out of the way as Kira and the others did their jobs, working with practiced efficiency.
I stared, open-mouthed, as the aircraft drew closer, flames lapping the undercarriage, right beneath the pilot. The plane wobbled as it slowed to landing speed, and I wondered about the flares. Were they still on board, or had the navigator tossed them out? If she were dead or unconscious, and the flames reached the flares, it would be all over, real quick.
The biplane hit the ground hard, bounced, and the pilot cut the engine as she steered away from the area where the fuel had been. I ran, sprinting to the plane as flames licked up the side, sending the pilot scrambling out of the cockpit and onto the wing.
The navigator hadn’t moved.
The biplane collapsed, one landing gear giving way, the pilot barely hanging on as she tried to pull the navigator out, working to release her harness. Fire reached up the side of the aircraft as if hunting the pilot, punishing her for trying to free her comrade from the grasping flames. I jumped up on the wing next to her and vaulted onto the fuselage, pulling the navigator straight up and sliding her down the side, where the pilot had been joined by Kira.
Smoke swirled up from beneath the navigator’s position, then flame broke through.
There were half a dozen flares mounted next to her seat.
“Stalin!” I shouted, jumped down and scrambled across the grass as Kira and the pilot dragged the navigator to safety.
A woomph blasted my back as the fuel tank exploded, sending a plume of flame skyward. I fell and rolled away, shielding my eyes as the flares ignited, creating a hot white glow that consumed the cockpit and the rest of the wood and fabric construction.
I scurried over to where Kira was kneeling over the navigator, opening her leather jacket, as two other girls pulled bandages from their medical kits. But by the clear light of the burning wreckage, it was all too plain to see. She was dead. Shells had hit her in the side and gone straight through. Blood oozed from her wounds where the tightly belted leather coat had acted as a compress. It soaked the earth beneath her ruined body as red as the flames which consumed her aircraft.
Tatyana landed shortly after that, with Mayor Amosova the last to touch down. As the navigator’s body was wrapped in a shroud, the officers had a huddle. Kira joined them, pointing to me at one point and talking about the Kapitan.
Amosova nodded. Kira came over, stood at attention, and saluted. I returned it, giving it my best. She darted off, helping the others carry jerrycans to fuel the aircraft. No bombs this time.
The Mayor came over and removed a decoration from her tunic. She pulled my coat open and pinned it above my pocket. It was a five-pointed star, red, with a hammer and sickle at the center. She stepped back to admire it, smiled, and stuck out her hand. We shook, and she quickly left to check on the wounded pilot.
Tatyana patted her chest, then mine. We both had the same medal. She tapped it and said something that must have been its name. She turned and pointed at the wrecked Po-2, its metal struts now glowing red-hot.
“This medal is for that?” I said, mirroring her gestures. Seemed like it was. We gazed at the fire, unable to look away.
“Zolynia,” she said, after a moment of silence.
After more gestures and pointing again at the burning aircraft, I got the message that we had to move out, since the flames could be seen for miles. Everyone else was going back to their regular airbase, forty kilometers east. But not me. Tatyana had been given the job of taking me to Zolynia.
Then, I’d be on my own.
The Po-2s took off, one by one. The trucks rumbled away on a dirt track through the woods. Tatyana lifted off last, turning north as the others vectored to the east. The flames, dying away at last, still lit the meadow like Scollay Square on a Saturday night.
Tatyana turned and pointed to her eyes and to the sky above. I gave her a thumbs up, message received. Focus on the sky. The Messers might be out hunting, drawn by the bonfire light like deadly moths.
Chapter Seventeen
It was light as we neared Zolynia airfield. Coming in low over a camouflaged hangar, I spotted Yak-9 fighters, twin-engine bombers, and a scattering of transport aircraft. An antiaircraft gun tracked us as Tatyana brought the Po-2 in for a smooth landing on the tarmac. Not surprising, since she was making an unannounced visit. One of the many features the simple biplane lacked was a radio.
Simple, but it got the job done.
A jeep rolled out to meet us, and I could see the officer in the rear seat eyeing me. He vaulted out as soon as the jeep braked to a halt, his hand resting on his holster. Tatyana saluted, giving her name and unleashing a few fast sentences. The officer returned the salute, and she nodded in my direction, probably relating the story of my circuitous route here.
“Kapitan Boyle,” she said. “Kapitan Kolesnikov.”
A fellow captain. Good, that cut down on a lot of saluting. I gave him my orders, but he seemed more interested in my medal. He pointed to it and spoke to Tatyana, suspicion weighing heavy on his words. She answered him, and he responded by shaking my hand, then gesturing to the jeep.
“You?” I asked Tatyana, doing the same. She shook her head. No, she was going back to the Night Witches. She smiled, kissed my cheek, and stepped back, offering her own salute.
“Good luck,” I said as I snapped one back. She seemed to understand.
I got in the jeep with Kolesnikov and watched over my shoulder as we drove away. The little Po-2 roared into life and carried Tatyana off, disappearing over the treetops as I waved, even though she could not see.
The blue piping and wings on his shoulder boards marked Kolesnikov as an air force officer. He seemed friendly enough, keeping his gun hand away from his holster now that Tatyana had vouched for me. He was tall, dark-haire
d, and thin, sitting erect in the seat next to me, smelling of cigarette smoke and gasoline, the standard-issue fumes of any airbase.
He led the way inside a two-story building that had to be the operations center, since everyone looked busy or at least working at looking busy. The main room was a wide-open space, centered around a radio operator and three clerks pushing paper. Kolesnikov escorted me to a room down a hallway. It held a table and two chairs. The words interrogation room flitted through my mind, but he kept the door open after he called out to an enlisted man.
As we sat, he offered me a cigarette, which I waved off. It was one of those Russian brands with the tobacco inside a cardboard tube. He compressed the hollow end, stuck it in his mouth, and lit up. It smelled like burnt cabbage. Kolesnikov unfolded the orders I’d been given and settled in for a good read, puffing away and filling the small room with a god-awful stench. If he was a chain smoker, I wouldn’t last long.
A few minutes later a private came in with a mug of tea along with a slab of black bread slathered in butter. I sipped as Kolesnikov read the orders line by line. He pointed to one line and asked me a question, and all I could do was shrug.
“Sorry, Kapitan, I can’t read a line of it.”
He stood to leave, motioning me to remain. The private who’d brought in the food was waiting in the hallway, and Kolesnikov had a conversation with him, bringing the soldier into the room and sounding pleasant about it. I got the impression he was more of a guide than a guard and tested that by asking for the vannaya after Kolesnikov left. I was escorted to the back of the building and allowed to use the bathroom. I washed up as best I could, wishing I had a change of clothes. It seemed days ago that I’d left Poltava.
I drank the tea as I ate, hoping it would wake my exhausted mind. Questioning a potential witness is demanding work. It pays to appear confident and informed, even when you’re not close to either. The most effective interrogation is disguised as a conversation, my dad always told me. Nobody likes being peppered with questions, but they do like talking about themselves and the things they care about, or the wrongs done to them. Everybody has a life story, Dad said. Get them to tell you theirs, and the truth will be easier to tease out of them.
That was solid advice, but how would it work here, via a translator? I hoped I’d find out. For all I knew, Kolesnikov had gone to fetch Lieutenant Nikolin and would be bringing him back here for questioning. I’d gotten good at pantomiming words and making myself understood, but this wasn’t a game of charades. I needed someone who knew how to say murder in Russian.
Kolesnikov returned with a soldier in tow. A soldier who could have served in the last war, or maybe even in the czar’s army. Solidly built, the aged private had a thick gray mustache and straw-like hair peppered black and white. He walked with a limp, favoring his right leg. Heavy bags pulled down his eyes, putting red-rimmed lids and a suspicious gaze on full display.
Kolesnikov gestured for him to sit, speaking gently to him.
“American?” the private asked me.
“Yes. You speak English?”
“It has been,” he said, huffing up a heavy sigh, “a long time.”
“Are you all right?” I asked, as he looked at the open door behind him.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I am not punished? Being punished, I mean.”
“No. The kapitan brought you here to help me. I’m Captain Billy Boyle, and I need a translator. Can you do that for me?”
“Certainly,” he said, straightening his shoulders. A bit of life came into his eyes as he seemed to realize nothing terrible was about to happen. He was no stranger to bad things, that was for sure. “Fedor Popov, at your service, Captain.”
I glanced at Kolesnikov, who smiled, pleased with Popov’s responsiveness.
“Your English is good, Private,” I said.
“I am out of practice,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “But the words feel familiar in my mouth.”
“Please thank Kapitan Kolesnikov for me,” I said. “Tell him I appreciate his help, and I hope you can remain with me while I am here.”
Popov spoke with the captain, then turned to me.
“Lieutenant Tatyana Chechneva told Captain Kolesnikov of your journey here, and how you helped rescue her comrade from the burning airplane. He is grateful and gives you his personal thanks. His wife is a pilot with the 586th Fighter Aviation Regiment. She flies the Yak-9 fighter, as he does.” Popov seemed a bit bored with communicating this personal information and gave a quick eye roll to show his displeasure.
“That explains his interest in helping me,” I said, nodding my understanding to Kolesnikov. “Now tell me about yourself. Where did you learn such good English?” What I really wanted to know was what kind of duress he was under. I needed to depend on this guy, and he looked a bit flaky.
“At university in Moscow,” Popov said. “Years ago. I graduated and taught history. Then I said something wrong. I was denounced. I lost my position, spent five years in Siberia. Internal exile, not the camps, thank God. Thank goodness, rather. There is no God, only Stalin.”
“Then you joined the army?”
“Of course. Russia needs all her sons, even those who lack understanding of the glories of Marxism,” Popov said, his eyes darting around the room. Looking for hidden microphones was my guess. He understood plenty.
Another private entered, handing Kolesnikov a folder. He read it and spoke to Popov.
“The kapitan wishes you to know that the man you are seeking, Vanya Nikolin, is not at this base,” Popov told me. “His unit passed through here on the way to the front yesterday.”
“I was told he would be here by an NKVD officer. Lieutenant Nikolin is also NKVD and was given permission to transfer from Poltava airbase to a frontline unit.”
“Given permission?” Popov laughed, then he and Kolesnikov had a back-and-forth. “You are amusing, Captain Boyle. No one seeks permission to be in that unit.”
“Which unit?” I asked, not getting what was so funny.
“The 18th Detached Penal Company,” he said. “I barely survived it myself.” He rubbed his eyes as if vanquishing a memory.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking to Kolesnikov, hoping I was just too tired to grasp what was being said. “Where’s Lieutenant Nikolin?”
“There is no Lieutenant Nikolin, do you not understand?” Popov said, his voice trembling as he slammed his fist on the table. “He is nothing. A private. A shtrafniki.”
It took a while to piece things together. What I got out of Popov was that he, too, had been sentenced to three months in a punishment company. Known as shtrafbat units, they were for soldiers who had retreated or disobeyed any one of Stalin’s many orders. Popov had been in a unit that was surrounded. The order came to stand and fight to the last man, since Stalin had issued a decree about not taking one step backwards.
Popov, deciding it was foolish to die for a piece of ground the Germans would take anyway, took a whole bunch of steps back, and snuck out of the encirclement. He made it back to the Russian lines. Instead of being congratulated for rejoining the fight, he was sent to the 18th Detached Penal and became a shtrafniki. Most men didn’t survive. Popov was wounded close to the end of his term, which saved him. He was declared rehabilitated by his own blood, discharged from the shtrafbat, and sent to the hospital at this airbase. Due to his age, he was assigned here as a medical orderly after he recovered.
“I see there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said. “I didn’t know that Nikolin was sent to a punishment detachment. Two people were murdered while he was on guard duty, so I guess someone decided he deserved to take the fall.”
“The fall?” Popov asked.
“The blame,” I said. “Tell me, do the shtrafbat units get the most dangerous assignments? I need to get to Nikolin before the next attack.”
Popov spoke to Ko
lesnikov, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. The lieutenant shook his head sadly, gesturing for Popov to go on.
“Captain Boyle, you do not understand. You see before you a ghost, a man who should be dead. Yet here I am, alive against all odds. The main function of the 18th Detached Penal Company is the clearing of mines.”
“That must be very dangerous,” I said. “Mine-clearing can be treacherous.”
“Treacherous? Yes, it is very treacherous to clear a mine field by walking through it. That is all the shtrafniki are good for, to clear mines by blowing themselves up. Do you know what saved me and put me in this hospital, Captain? Not German bullets, not even a German mine. No, it was the bone from my friend’s leg. He stepped on a mine and it blew his leg into my hip. They were picking out bone fragments for days.”
Popov buried his face in his hands. Kolesnikov called for vodka. Popov needed it. I needed it.
“Tramplers, they call us,” Popov said, rubbing his hand across his face. “Each day in the minefields was a horror, knowing that each step could be your last. Some men died quickly. Others bled to death, their limbs torn apart. More than a few went mad. Perhaps I have gone mad too. It is sometimes hard to tell.”
The vodka arrived, thank God. Or Stalin.
Chapter Eighteen
It was a subdued round of drinking, especially for Russians. Kolesnikov capped the bottle after pouring a last glass for Popov.
“Please ask the kapitan if Nikolin can be recalled and brought here for questioning,” I said.
No. The penal detachment was an NKVD unit, and they would not let one of their men be recalled for any purpose, especially not by an air force officer.
