Road of Bones

by James R Benn

  “Billy, what is it we are after, exactly?” Kaz asked as we got out. The windows of the shop were boarded up, but the sign over the door had a fresh coat of paint.

  “Let’s just see if anyone remembers Kopelev,” I said. “I’d like to know what else he was interested in. Other than the collected wisdom of Joseph Stalin.”

  “I doubt we will learn anything,” Sidorov said. “But it is better than sitting and waiting for word on Nikolin.”

  “And perhaps I will pick up a good book,” Kaz said. “Do they stock any Polish titles, Captain Sidorov?”

  “Please do not make a scene, Lieutenant,” Sidorov said, as he opened the door for us to enter. “Even if you come across a rock or a stick.”

  The bookshop was one big room, the walls filled with bookshelves, some of them no more than rough cut wooden planks. Most had books, some of the shelves almost full. Tables in the middle of the room held stacks of used books, missing covers or otherwise damaged. A dozen people milled around, perusing the shelves and flipping through books on the tables. Without a Cyrillic decoder ring, I didn’t have a clue what any of them were about.

  We caught some curious glances as the customers and staff took in our uniforms, but Sidorov quickly introduced himself to the man in charge. He was bald with a fluff of white hair sticking out from behind his ears, where his hairline was making its last stand.

  Kaz drifted off, lured by the thought of a book he hadn’t yet met.

  Sidorov introduced me to the fellow and a younger woman who stood beside him behind the counter. They looked nervous, maybe wondering if the government had come to check on what they were selling. But no, this was a government bookstore, so they were all comrades. Maybe it was the two foreigners in strange uniforms. I’d bet any Yanks who got a pass into town didn’t put the bookstore high on their list.

  “I’ve described Lieutenant Kopelev and asked if they remembered him,” Sidorov said as the two workers put their heads together. After a quick talk with Sidorov, he said they did.

  “They remembered his uniform, and his blue NKVD cap and shoulder boards,” Sidorov reported. “They say he was very earnest and read deeply. Mainly Marxist-Leninist theory. Some fiction, but not much.”

  “What about maps and atlases? Did he ask about what they had?”

  They shook their heads nyet.

  “Do they have a section for atlases and maps?” I asked.

  The woman led us to a table filled with children’s books. Brightly illustrated pictures of children in the fields, in factories, marching with red banners.

  “What’s this?” I asked. Sidorov opened a picture book with outlines of the various Soviet republics and the little comrades you’d find in each one. Heart-warming.

  “We do not publish maps of Soviet territory to be sold,” Sidorov said. “All she had to offer is this type of book for children. Kopelev certainly did buy the book here, but it was likely a used volume, not part of their standard stock.”

  “What’s the problem with maps?” I asked.

  “Fear of the foreigner again,” Sidorov said with a heavy sigh. “Fear that good maps may be used to plan bombings or for spies to make their way around. I will let you in on a secret, Billy. Civil city maps and road maps are printed with deliberate mistakes, to confuse the enemy, whoever that may be.”

  “The army must need real maps,” I said.

  “Of course,” Sidorov said, tossing the book back onto the table. “The NKVD administers mapmaking and distribution, to give you an idea of how closely cartographic information is guarded. Military maps are under their jurisdiction, and all maps must be turned in after an operation. Even fragments, if the map is destroyed.”

  “Do you think they’re afraid to admit they sold him the atlas? It wasn’t the kind of thing that could help you get from one city to another, after all,” I said.

  “No, I do not think so. It would not be an offense to resell such a book. I doubt these comrades even know of the errors introduced into our maps. They simply may not recall one book among all those Kopelev purchased.”

  “Okay. Well, it was worth a try. Know of any good places to eat in town?”

  “I hear the Cosmos Hotel is passable,” Sidorov said. “Remember, your Sergeant Craven recommended it?”

  “He said it was a good place to find hookers,” I said. “But hey, they gotta eat too.”

  “Yes,” Sidorov said. “I will ask for directions. And speaking of Sergeant Craven, he was suddenly transferred as well, if you recall. It is not just a Soviet practice.”

  I gave a sharp laugh, acknowledging Sidorov’s point, even though it had been he and I who cooked up Craven’s transfer. I told Kaz what the plan was, and he said he’d like to browse around for a few minutes more. I told him to knock himself out, and Sidorov and I went outside to wait in the jeep.

  “What do we do if Nikolin doesn’t come back?” I said, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “He could have been killed ten minutes after I left him.”

  “I do not know,” Sidorov said, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. There was a chill in the air, and the clouds overhead shrouded the city street in dull grayness. “We can try to question Belov about forcing you into that bombing mission. It seems he is the one who could have most easily pulled those strings. It was an air force matter, after all.”

  “Right. Pressure the Russian general who’s been put in charge of a joint American and Soviet airbase,” I said. “Belov has to be pretty well-connected to be given a job like this.”

  “True,” Sidorov said. “Only a man trusted by Moscow would be given this responsibility. It may work in our favor though, since Belov must be seen to be like Caesar’s wife.”

  “Beyond reproach,” I said, trying to recall the saying.

  “Above suspicion,” Kaz said, hopping in the rear seat. “Why is General Belov like Pompeia?”

  “Because any hint of wrongdoing, even unproven, could cause his superiors to lose faith in him,” Sidorov said. “Didn’t Caesar divorce his wife because another Roman tried to seduce her?”

  “Yes, even though the fellow was not successful, Caesar divorced her and coined the saying, Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion,” Kaz said. “Which, as you point out, now applies to all those in sensitive positions. Do you suspect Belov is behind the killings?”

  “I find it hard to see how all this could occur without his knowledge,” Sidorov said.

  “I have to admit, having been sent up in that biplane to attack a German position didn’t endear the guy to me,” I said. “But I can’t figure what’s in it for him, or anyone.”

  “And I am reluctant to accuse the general, or even suggest his guilt, without actual proof,” Sidorov said. “Airing suspicions will accomplish nothing, except for my return to Siberia.”

  “Well then, on to lunch,” Kaz said. “In case it is your last decent meal.” Sidorov almost laughed.

  We found the Cosmos Hotel only a few blocks away, following the directions Sidorov had been given at the bookstore. The building hadn’t been damaged. Even the windows were intact. Maybe the Germans had counted on a return visit and liked the accommodations.

  The restaurant was clean, the wood polished, and the black and white tile floor gleaming. After we were seated, Sidorov ordered. Pea soup to start, goulash over boiled potatoes for the main course.

  “It is what the bookstore manager suggested,” Sidorov said. “And from the looks of the menu, there isn’t much else to choose from. Supplies are scarce. Peas and potatoes at least are in ample supply. Thank goodness we are in farm country, not that much could be planted this spring with all the fighting.”

  “The war disrupts everything,” Kaz said. “Billy mentioned how even the supply of morphine is quite limited. The two of you provided the hospital on base with some relief, but he reported that the hospitals at Kozova and Zolynia were
also running low.”

  “Sadly, yes,” Sidorov said. “We are fortunate that we have our own source of opium from the Kyrgyz province to the east. But it is a long way away, four thousand kilometers, some of the terrain mountainous. As you say, the war disrupts everything, including badly needed medical supplies.”

  Our waitress brought tea, and we sat silently as she poured.

  We sipped the tea in silence. We’d talked about Nikolin, how bad the war was, Caesar’s wife, and potatoes. That about did it for subjects we had in common. Sidorov and Kaz acted politely, but this wasn’t going to be a luncheon filled with chuckles. There was still tension between them, and I felt torn. There was my loyalty to Kaz, which was unshakable. But in the few days I’d spent alone with Sidorov, I’d seen a decent side of him. I knew it wasn’t his only side, but it was more than I’d seen before, and I had to admit, I felt a glimmer of guilt at what I’d done to him.

  He’d deserved it, but that sentiment was easier to support with a few thousand miles and a continent between us.

  Food arrived and we kept the chitchat easy as we slurped our way through the thick soup. As we waited for the second course, I tried to come up with something to talk about that wouldn’t upset Kaz. I remembered that Sidorov had a wife. He’d mentioned her back in England, and that her father was some sort of high Communist Party official.

  “Have you had any contact with your wife?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell me once she worked in the Propaganda Ministry in Moscow?”

  “I have no wife,” Sidorov said. “Which is better for her career in Moscow. We were divorced months ago. Her father is an official with the People’s Commissariat for Justice, and he moved the paperwork through channels quietly. It seems a husband must also be above suspicion, especially where high-ranking Party members are concerned. Divorce is frowned upon, especially now that Mother Russia needs sons and daughters to replace those killed by the fascists. But for those in the nomenklatura, all things are possible.”

  The goulash arrived, and Sidorov seemed sufficiently over his divorce to enjoy it.

  The food was good, and the surroundings passed for elegant on what had recently been the cutting edge of the Eastern Front. Kaz seemed relaxed and kept his subtly barbed comments to himself. Our waitress left the bill and Sidorov tossed a pile of rubles on top of it, then excused himself.

  “Vannaya break,” I said to Kaz. “I’m beginning to pick up a few words. Morify, that’s morphine.”

  “Excellent,” Kaz said, his eyes following Sidorov as he walked to the rear of the restaurant and went downstairs. “Tell me, Billy, what did we learn today?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Russians don’t like atlases. Poltava is dreary. That’s about it.”

  “There’s something else,” Kaz said, turning to watch for Sidorov’s return. “Think about it. Actually, two things, but you’ve observed only one. When it comes to you, I’ll tell you the other.”

  “I take it we’re keeping this a secret from Sidorov,” I said.

  “I think that best.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sidorov insisted on driving back, which didn’t leave much time to think about what Kaz had meant. I was too busy hanging onto my seat and the windscreen, not to mention closing my eyes whenever he took a corner and fishtailed the jeep.

  As Sidorov thankfully slowed for the gate, I caught the sound of engines in the distance, the steady drone of B-17 Pratt & Whitney engines churning through the air.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the western sky as we drove onto the base. The lead formation emerged from the clouds, descending as they neared the field. We joined the flow of people and vehicles headed for the main runway to watch this latest shuttle bombing mission land.

  A couple of ancient fire trucks were parked by the hangars, along with ambulances and jeeps. The wounded aircrew would be rushed to the hospital, the rest of them taken to debriefing. The dead? I didn’t know where they’d end up. In body bags, on the next flight to Tehran? The first four Fortresses landed smoothly, even the one decorated with holes in its tail assembly. Then the flares started dropping. That meant wounded aboard the next ships. Other aircraft circled the field, giving the stricken ships priority.

  The next Fort came in low, trailing smoke from two engines, wings wobbling as the pilot struggled to keep it straight. It landed, bounced hard, and kept rolling, past the end of the runway and into the grassy field. Ambulances and jeeps sped out, along with one of the fire engines. Smoke choked the air around the B-17, enveloping the rescuers and rendering them invisible.

  The first Fortresses to land taxied to the hangar and cut their engines. An ambulance raced to the plane with the shot-up tail, the rear gunner’s position stitched with bullet holes. As the crew climbed out, they wearily waved off the ambulance. Other parts of the fuselage were shredded, the tell-tale marks of 20mm cannon shells all too evident. The tail gunner, and maybe others, must’ve been dead.

  More flares.

  Flames erupted from the Fortress that ran off the runway. Crewmembers ran, getting clear of the flames that began to lick at the fuselage. A fireball blossomed, sending inky black smoke and bright yellow flame into the sky. The only good thing was that at the end of the long run from England, there wasn’t that much fuel left in the tanks.

  “This was my first mission.”

  I turned to see a lieutenant, still in his flight gear, watching the landings. He must have been on one of the first Forts to land. He was young, but by the vacant look in his eyes, he’d aged some in the last few hours.

  His trousers were soaked in blood.

  “Lieutenant, are you all right?” I said, laying my hand on his shoulder and checking him out. He was standing just fine, no sign of a wound anywhere.

  “It’s Anderson’s,” he said, speaking with a hypnotic drone. “Anderson’s blood. Waist gunner. I tried to stop the bleeding. I did.”

  “Was that your Fort, the one with the tail section all shot up?”

  “Skipper said I should check on them,” he said. “I never saw anything like it.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said. I wanted to get him into the jeep, but he stood rock solid, watching the flow of bombers circling and landing.

  “I saw guys bail out and get hit by flak,” he said. “Guys from the Frisco Gal. Friends of mine. Anderson all ripped up. Tommy, the other waist gunner, his arm was shot off. Completely gone. But it’s the strangest thing. You know the only thing I can think of?”

  “No, pal. What?” I let go of his arm and tried to make eye contact, but he was seeing something far beyond his range of vision.

  “Back home—my folks live in the Bronx—I used to watch the place across the street when I got home from school. It was a big apartment building that the army took over. They had guys going to NYU for some special courses, and they put them up there. I’d watch them when they came back after class every day. I was waiting for my eighteenth birthday so I could sign up too. I couldn’t wait. The building was huge, two big wings and a courtyard in the middle. There were two main entrances, but these guys didn’t bother with that. They’d gather by the fire escapes, then they’d jump up, real high, and pull down the ladders. They’d climb up the fire escapes, doing all sorts of crazy daredevil stuff, and get into their apartments through the windows. It was like a free aerobatic show every day. They were so full of life, so sure of themselves, nimble and quick, like nothing could hurt them. Nothing.”

  The last bomber landed. The lieutenant walked away.

  I watched the Fortress burn.

  “That was a rough mission,” Bull said a while later as Kaz and I stopped in his office. “The Luftwaffe harassed them all the way across Germany after they hit their target.”

  “We saw one crash and burn,” I said, still thinking about all those athletic young men. Boys.

  “Yeah, we have aircrew to s
end back via Tehran. I’m organizing a flight for the wounded,” Bull said. “Which reminds me. I went over to see Big Mike while you were gone. He’s already a bit stir crazy, especially after the time he spent locked up in that hospital ward.”

  “It is not in his nature to sit still for long,” Kaz said. “But he must.”

  “I think he feels useless,” Bull said. “So try this idea on. I can get him on a medical flight to Tehran. We have a hospital at the airbase. They can check him out and he can ask around about that Max character you wanted to talk to. Maybe even find him.”

  “It would help to have someone there,” I said, glancing at Kaz. “There’s not much he can help with here. We’re doing nothing just fine ourselves.”

  “I agree, as long as he takes care of his leg,” Kaz said.

  “Okay. I’ll make sure the doctors give him a thorough checkup, and that he has clearance to send me radio messages,” Bull said. “I’ll add his name to the manifest. Any news on Nikolin?”

  “Sidorov is checking with Drozdov,” I said. “We should have known one way or the other by now.”

  “I have good news,” Sidorov said, entering the office with Maiya at his heels. “Nikolin is alive and is being recalled. He will be at the Zolynia airbase within the hour.”

  “And General Belov has approved me to fly as copilot and pick him up,” Maiya said, beaming. “It is wonderful.”

  “I am sure Lieutenant Nikolin thinks so too,” Kaz said. “When do you depart?”

  “Now,” Maiya said. “The aircraft is being fueled. We will return this evening. I must get ready. Runway three, in case you should wish to see us off.”

  Maiya left in a rushed state of excitement. It was the only good news we’d gotten, and her joy at being able to fly on a transport mission was infectious. Kaz, Sidorov, and I decided to watch her take off, then head over to Big Mike and talk about his jaunt to Tehran.