“Here he is.” Yefgenii struck him hard on the angle of the jaw. Glinka didn’t go down, so Yefgenii hit him again and this time he crumpled to the ground with a sound that was almost a sob.
“My father—”
Yefgenii kicked him in the stomach. “You talk to anyone and I’ll find you in your bunk, before morning you’ll be dead.” The breath hissed out of Glinka and for a few seconds he was openmouthed and gasping. From the ground he gazed up. Yefgenii was becoming a blur.
A jet thundered overhead making the earth tremble. Its landing lights ghosted through the cloud. For a moment they crowned Yefgenii like a halo.
Yefgenii began shrieking at Glinka but the roar of the jet was drowning him out. In a blur Glinka saw him framed beneath a great gleaming white nimbus with his mouth snapping open in brutal shrieks. He rained down blows in between which Glinka caught only snatches of his rant:
“… war…
“…work…
“…team…
“…country…
“…glory…
“…victory…
“…kill…”
Yefgenii’s face appeared to be floating within the great white glow and then Glinka saw the light sail on. The jet roar rumbled away. It was the last aircraft of the last wave. He spat blood and tried to get up again but Yefgenii kicked him back down. He kicked him till he became breathless himself and he was spitting too when he shrieked, “Don’t you want to kill Americans?”
Glinka coughed in the dirt on all fours. “What’s the point of this shitty war?”
Yefgenii struck Glinka again and again. Glinka attempted to slap away the punches and kicks but soon gave in and rolled over. Yefgenii peered down at the crumpled figure. He could beat him to death out here in the darkness. Instead he hoisted Glinka onto his shoulder and carried him the half kilometre back to the transport trucks. The other men saw Glinka’s wounds and the bruises on Yefgenii’s knuckles and said nothing. Kiriya saw them too but he didn’t say anything either.
Night deepened as the men rode back to their barracks. They were in good cheer. Tonight there’d be celebrations in the bar. In the barracks Yefgenii rested on his bunk. His neck ached from the sortie. Pain ran in cords from the back of his head down to his shoulder blades.
The bunk beside him was empty. The sheets had been stripped down to the tatty, yellowing mattress. Someone had already packed Gnido’s effects into boxes.
“Come on, Yeremin!” The others were changing out of their flying kit. “Come on, half-ace!”
Yefgenii swung off his bunk and began to change into the uniform that resembled a demobilization suit. It marked him out as a rookie, since his seniors had accumulated enough flying pay to replace theirs with smart civilian dress.
Skomorokhov offered him one of his shirts. Yefgenii took it, sweeping some of Skomorokhov’s hairs out of the collar. At that, both men turned away lest their mutual embarrassment about Skomorokhov’s hair loss ruin the moment.
In the bar they flew the sortie all over again. Hands performed dogfights, then broke off for more cheap vodka.
Wearing Skomorokhov’s shirt, Yefgenii at last looked like a pilot of the 221st IAP, though the buttons appeared ready to pop. Skomorokhov told him he could keep it and bought him a drink for the third or fourth time that night. He dug him in the ribs and winked at him. Yefgenii turned to Pilipenko. “One more vodka and he’ll be kissing me.”
Over and over again, in an obsessive tic, Skomorokhov smoothed hair over his bald patch. He’d grown the front long and combed it back. On occasions such as these he considered himself more on show than any other man. He was the Polk’s leading ace. His status, like that of royalty, surpassed rank.
Kiriya observed the men’s high spirits. Morale was up. Toward the end of the night he decided it was time to beckon Yefgenii. He did so with a twitch of his fingers.
“All day I’ve been thinking what I’m going to do about you, Yeremin. You’re supposed to be my wingman. You’re not supposed to lead me into battle and nick all the kills for yourself.”
“It happened very fast, boss. I wasn’t even thinking.”
“Bullshit, you were trying to prove what you’re capable of.”
Yefgenii shifted. He was drunk. He didn’t trust himself to say the right thing.
“To cap it all, you beat up Stalin’s nephew.”
“Glinka is Stalin’s nephew?”
“So you admit beating him up.”
Yefgenii gulped.
Kiriya roared with laughter. “Of course he isn’t Stalin’s nephew!”
Yefgenii wanted to laugh, but remained too tense.
“Fuck him. I’m moving you up from wing to lead; I’m promoting you to starshii-leitenant.”
Yefgenii looked stunned.
“How about ‘Thanks, boss’?”
“Thanks, boss.”
Kiriya clinked glasses with him. “Enjoy it while you can.” He studied this gauche boy standing before him more than a head taller with hair so blond it looked white and eyes that burned blue, and round his chin and neck acne that stippled his creamy skin. He wondered if he might be one of those few whose names the brotherhood would one day incant as if casting a spell.
He said, “This is a war between great nations. Not the same as a great war. But enjoy it — it’s the best one we’ve got.”
“Just like this vodka!”
Kiriya grinned. “What do you care? You’re a starshii-leitenant with two and a half kills!”
“I am, boss!”
The men stayed late. There were more hours of drinking before they drifted back to the barracks.
Out in the darkness, Yefgenii paused. The Moon hung in the east. He breathed. The air carried a smell of pinecones from the forest that divided the base from the airfield.
If he’d been killed yesterday, there’d’ve been only a blank space where his life had run. Now something of substance was forming in the space that some of us fill and others leave empty. He hated men like Glinka who aimed only to survive this tour so they could return to their lives. Glinka’s type didn’t long for battle and that which comes with it: the chance to measure themselves against other men. Perhaps only in sport does a man measure himself against another man in any sense that’s true. The air battles were sport, but they were also more.
Yefgenii’s dream had been born in a sewer and now he could dream of vying with the likes of Jabara for the title of Ace of Aces. He wouldn’t dare announce his ambition to the others. They would only laugh.
As it happened, Jabara wasn’t even in Korea anymore — he’d been sent back to the U.S. on a publicity tour. At this time the leading ace of the war was Major George A. Davis Jr., with fourteen victories, though Davis wasn’t in Korea anymore either. He’d been shot down and killed in February by Kapetan Mikhail Averin of the 148th GvIAP.
“Congratulations, Leitenant.”
He spun around. The widow stood a short distance away but he couldn’t see much of her except that she was smoking a cigarette. A light breeze wafted the smoke toward him. “On what?”
“Your victories.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you smoke? I have only this one, but we can share it.”
He hesitated.
She smiled. He was still only a boy. She walked toward him and offered him the cigarette.
He took a drag, then handed it back. She stood beside him in silence. They breathed the cold night air that smelled of pinecones. He looked at her. Gnido was dead, but he was alive.
THE AIR WAS SPLIT. Metal clashed like the clash of cymbals. An F-86 floated into his crosshairs and he pulled the trigger. Tracers flickered. Smoke ballooned till it enveloped him and then, when he broke out of it, the Sabre was far below and trailing a plume of soot.