Sapphire Skies (18 page)

Svetlana stopped and gazed at the table, lost in her own thoughts. Lily and Oksana were leaning forward in their seats; they didn’t want the story to end. But it was clear that Svetlana’s tale wasn’t one that could be rushed or told in one sitting. They would have to be patient and not tax her.

‘We’ll help you to bed,’ said Oksana, gently squeezing Svetlana’s arm. ‘As a child I read about Natalya Azarova and my parents took me to visit the small museum in the Arbat run by the school teacher. But you have brought her to life for me. You have made me see her as flesh and blood, a real person.’

Svetlana smiled faintly. ‘Yes, Natasha was once a real person,’ she said.

C
aptain Valentin Orlov manoeuvred his fighter plane over the outskirts of Stalingrad, hiding himself in the smoke that enveloped the city. The air reeked of scorched earth, munitions powder and something putrid that Orlov didn’t want to think about. To the west he saw German Junkers with their fighter cover dropping bombs onto already burning buildings. Some Soviet fighters engaged them, attempting to break their formation, then withdrew. The Luftwaffe dominated the skies now. They had reduced Stalingrad to rubble. Orlov grimaced at the sight of the charred and dismembered bodies that littered the streets. He wasn’t sure who he hated more: Hitler for giving orders to destroy the city, or Stalin for forcing the citizens to stay and defend it.

Orlov’s wingman had been killed in his bunker when their airfield was bombed a few days ago, and to engage the enemy alone under the present conditions would be suicide. Frustrated, he turned back to his airfield.

Reducing his engine power on approach, Orlov saw the ground crew moving three Yak-1s into the earth and wood hangar. New planes or new pilots? After the losses they had suffered at Stalingrad, the regiment needed both.

He landed and taxied towards the hangar. Once Sharavin, his mechanic, arrived to take the plane, Orlov climbed on the wing and jumped to the ground. There was no sign of any new pilots; perhaps the planes had been ferried to the airfield.

Orlov went to the commander of the regiment’s bunker and knocked on the door. Colonel Leonid Smirnov was sitting at his desk, his shoulders hunched as he stared at some documents that the chief of staff, who was standing next to him, had obviously handed over. The colonel looked up when he heard Orlov and scowled.

‘Comrade Captain Panchenko,’ he said to the chief of staff, ‘tell Comrade Captain Orlov what you have just told me.’

Captain Panchenko moistened his lips before speaking. His large bulging eyes seemed to protrude further when he conveyed the message. ‘We have new pilots and they have brought their mechanics with them.’

To Orlov that should have been good news, but he could tell by the sour expression on Colonel Smirnov’s face that somehow it wasn’t. ‘Novices again?’ he asked.

The last pilots sent to the regiment were ground artillery soldiers who’d been given thirty hours of flight training. At the risk of being shot for disobeying orders, both Colonel Smirnov and Orlov had refused to send them into combat. Instead, they’d used their planes and put the men on ground duties until they received further training. The situation in Stalingrad was desperate, but while Stalin might be demanding that anyone who could hold a gun should defend the city, neither Orlov nor his commander believed in throwing away lives for no purpose. That common belief was one of the things that made them friends.

‘No,’ answered Captain Panchenko. ‘These are qualified pilots. They served in Saratov, defending the railway lines and troops from enemy attacks. One of them has an Order of the Red Star for bravery and another is an experienced night fighter.’

A night fighter? Orlov was impressed. To fly and attack at night required nerves of steel. You had to trust your instruments on the position of your plane, and your instinct and night vision for the location of the enemy. Even returning to the airfield was dangerous. To avoid enemy attack they weren’t lit and pilots were only permitted to flash their landing lights once to see the runway. Someone of that skill would be invaluable to the regiment. Why then did Colonel Smirnov look so unhappy? Were the new pilots political prisoners bent on redeeming their honour by getting themselves killed?

‘What’s the catch?’ Orlov asked Captain Panchenko.

‘They are women.’

Orlov looked from Captain Panchenko to Colonel Smirnov then back again. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No,’ replied Captain Panchenko. ‘They have been sent to us from the 586th regiment. The communications are out. They arrived here the same time the message did.’

‘Shit!’ Orlov wasn’t a chauvinist. He considered women, particularly Russian women, capable. They made excellent engineers, scientists and surgeons. He knew that women pilots were undertaking heroic efforts in medical and troop transport. But support and defence weren’t what was required in Stalingrad. This was no place for women. It was a bloodbath.

‘I’m sending them back, of course,’ said Colonel Smirnov. ‘But we can use their planes tomorrow. Have you chosen a new wingman?’

‘With all due respect, Comrade Colonel Smirnov,’ said Captain Panchenko, ‘these are Marina Raskova’s pilots and crew. It will be insulting to them to be refused. You’d better explain it to them in person. I sent them to the mess bunker. They are waiting for you there.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Colonel Smirnov, looking annoyed. He glanced at Orlov. ‘You’re good with the ladies, Comrade Captain. Why don’t you explain it to them?’

Colonel Smirnov and Orlov made their way across the airfield together. Orlov knew he’d been duped by his friend. The colonel was married to a young woman who was expecting his child; he knew as much about women as Orlov did. As they walked, Orlov considered how to explain the situation to the pilots. Should he give the order to them firmly or soften it to spare their feelings? If the night fighter had survived the war this long, she couldn’t be a terrible pilot. But defence and attack were two different things. The Soviet Air Force in Stalingrad was using new tactics now: instead of flying in defensive formations and getting picked off by the Germans as a result, they were experimenting with more aggressive strategies. Orlov had been transferred to the regiment on the understanding that it was to be developed into a core of elite pilots who would be what was termed ‘free hunters’. Instead of only responding to attacks, they would also roam the sky and decide on their own targets.

Orlov and the colonel entered the mess bunker. The female pilots and their ground crew stood to attention. If their belted field tunics didn’t make it so obvious that these were shapely women, Orlov would have thought they were children. They were tiny!

‘Yes, yes, please be at ease,’ said Colonel Smirnov, waving his hand. He nodded to Orlov.

‘I’m afraid there has been a mistake,’ Orlov began. ‘You see, this is a men’s regiment. We have nowhere to accommodate you.’

One of the pilots, who had dark Georgian features, spoke up. ‘Comrade Captain, we served with men in the 586th. We don’t expect special treatment. A curtained-off area in any of the bunkers will be adequate.’

The 586th Fighter Regiment, which was commanded by Major Tamara Kazarinova, included a squadron of men, Orlov recalled that now. But unprepared for that argument, he continued with his original train of thought. ‘Women in the regiment will cause too many problems for the men.’

The colonel had been right when he described Orlov as being ‘good with the ladies’. But that was civilian ladies: Moscow women who wore dresses and walked little dogs on fancy leads. For some reason, face to face with women in military uniform, Orlov couldn’t get to his main point. The women remained attentive but seemed perplexed. Obviously they had worked alongside men in the 586th regiment. What specifically would be the problem here?

‘Women and men are made differently,’ he continued, ‘for different things.’

Colonel Smirnov looked askance at Orlov. His expression seemed to say that if Orlov had any point to make then he should get to it.

Sensing he was failing, Orlov tried again. ‘Women are made for bearing babies.’

The women remained expressionless, except the little blonde one, Orlov noticed. Was that a smirk on her face? Was she laughing at him?

Orlov could see that his superior was regretting entrusting him with this task. ‘Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush with you,’ the colonel told the women. ‘Stalingrad is not Saratov. It’s Armageddon. We’ve lost some of the finest pilots here and I’m afraid women are not up to what is required.’

The women looked shocked at his patronising tone. The Georgian frowned. Colonel Smirnov nodded to Orlov to take over again.

‘You can sleep in this bunker tonight,’ Orlov told the women. ‘I will arrange for your transfer to another regiment tomorrow.’

There, it’s said, he thought. All I have to do now is get Captain Panchenko to organise the transfer …

‘Permission to speak, Comrade Captain?’ the little blonde pilot piped up.

Orlov stared at her. It was the politest he’d been addressed since the start of the war but still he sensed trouble brewing.

‘Permission granted.’

The pilot stepped forward. ‘Comrade Captain, when Major Kazarinova sent us here, we made a pledge to uphold the honour of our regiment, to fight courageously and to return victorious. If you send us back without trying us, it will be a great insult to Major Kazarinova.’

The pilot was right, of course. But this was a matter of life and death; Major Kazarinova’s opinion was irrelevant. Orlov found the way the pilot stared at him provoking but he wasn’t about to be swayed by a pretty face. He turned to Colonel Smirnov.

‘Perhaps we should at least give them a try,’ agreed the colonel.

Orlov couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The battle-hardened colonel wasn’t able to say no to the little pilot? But something about the determined set of her jaw gave Orlov the impression that she was used to getting her own way.

‘Tomorrow morning we will test one of you to see if she is up to the task of being Comrade Captain Orlov’s wingman,’ continued the colonel. ‘If she fails, you will all go back. Do you understand?’

He indicated to Orlov to make his pick. It was merely a concession: Orlov knew that the colonel had no intention of keeping the women in the regiment. He was annoyed that he was being forced to waste his time.

‘Which one of you is the night fighter?’ he asked.

As soon as Orlov posed the question, he sensed that he would regret it. All the women’s eyes turned to the blonde pilot.

Oh shit! thought Orlov.

‘Sergeant Natalya Azarova at your service, Comrade Captain,’ she said.

Orlov met Sergeant Natalya Azarova on the airfield the following morning. They walked in silence towards their awaiting Yaks. Natalya studied the sky. Orlov was surprised to find her more restrained than he had anticipated. She seemed to be mentally preparing herself for the task ahead. From his first impression he’d been expecting a presumptuous pain in the arse. Natalya’s mechanic was fussing over her plane like a mother hen, topping up the fuel, checking the brakes and rudder, and wiping the windscreen and canopy until there wasn’t a single speck of grime. Sharavin leaned on Orlov’s Yak and winked at him.

‘This is a training exercise,’ Orlov said to Natalya, ‘but it’s dangerous up there in the sky. We don’t know what we might encounter. Stick to my tail and don’t do anything else unless I order you to.’

‘Yes, Comrade Captain,’ she answered him.

Natalya’s mechanic jumped down from the plane and helped her with her parachute harness. The two women were both so pretty and petite that Orlov didn’t see how anyone could take them seriously as air-force personnel. Natalya was wearing make-up and an expensive-looking sapphire brooch on her lapel. Had she been fighting all this time and never been reprimanded for breaches of uniform? He turned towards his aircraft and noticed Colonel Smirnov and the other pilots and ground crew lining up on the side of the airfield to watch. He turned back to Natalya.

‘Listen,’ he said, conscious that all eyes were on them, ‘I have to go hard. I have to show you how difficult it will be to fly here and we won’t even have the gunfire and noise of real combat. But if it gets too much for you, pull out. Don’t get yourself killed out of pride.’

Natalya’s eyes met his and she smiled. ‘Did you ever consider the possibility that I might surprise you?’

There it was! The brazenness he’d picked up on.

‘This is no joking matter!’ he said. ‘The lives of your fellow pilots and the fate of the Motherland depend on you being able to do your job! I hope you realise that by making us go through this farce you are wasting fuel and time!’

Orlov turned his back to her and donned his parachute harness, then strapped himself into the cockpit. He did his preflight checks and tested the brake pressure and rudder. When the flare went off to indicate clearance to take off, he signalled to Sharavin to remove the chocks from his Yak’s wheels. He checked to make sure that the cocky little pilot was ready too. She was: the canopy pulled shut, helmet and mask on.

They taxied to the runway and turned into the wind. Natalya positioned herself behind him, slightly to the right. He opened his throttle and then raised his hand and lowered it: the signal to take off. The two pilots accelerated down the runway, their wheels coming up, and took to the air like two birds in flight. Orlov checked around him for enemy planes. The smoke from Stalingrad had eased and the only cloud cover was high in the sky. At least their view was good.

He levelled off and kept a steady course, hoping to lull Natalya into complacency and get her distracted by the terrain. Maybe he could leave her behind first go and that would be the end of this silly game? When out on a mission, a pilot had many things to fear. Apart from being killed outright, there was the chance of being wounded, set on fire, running out of fuel or ammunition, or suffering a mechanical failure. Orlov had enough to think about without worrying about a woman being up in the air with him. He’d always managed to take care of his wingmen in the air but, if attacked, he’d trusted them to be able to fight back. He realised that that was what he’d been trying to express to the women pilots the previous night: it was a man’s natural instinct to protect a woman and that would jeopardise the new strategy of offensive action.

Without any radio instruction, Orlov swerved right. He checked behind him. Natalya was on his tail. So she wasn’t a daydreamer. He grabbed the stick and performed a roll and then a spin. Natalya stayed behind him like a persistent mosquito. He threw everything he could at her: tight turns, fast rolls and dives. Yet each time he checked, she was holding her position. A lesser pilot would have spun out of control.