“No. No. No. Please, God, save her,” I said, trying to fool myself into thinking if I prayed hard enough, I could stop her plane from spiraling in the ground. I felt small and helpless, as if a cruel Universe knew my every fear and brought them to life for its own amusement.
Martyona’s plane smashed into the steppes below. The brilliant explosion of yellows and oranges was mesmerizing. Even from where I hung in the sky I could feel the heat from the blast. The sudden change in air pressure also put a thump in my chest and a ringing in my ears.
The Messer circled around me, and I could see the pilot inspecting his kill. An ear-shattering bang came from his plane. Black clouds billowed from the nose of his craft and his prop stopped. As he leveled his plane, I hoped he’d lose control and crash, but I ended up cursing when I saw him bail and his chute open wide. I then prayed he’d break his neck on landing.
I slammed to the ground, the impact jarring my thoughts back to Martyona. I unbuckled my harness and let the rig fall from my back. Smoke rose from where my wing leader had crashed, and I stumbled toward it as fast as I could. Time was not on my side. My world view narrowed, and all of existence shrank down to me and her.
“Martyona! I’m coming!” I said. Somehow, she’d survived. I was a Cossack, a devout daughter of the Living God. He would hear my prayers. He had to.
My right ankle warmed, and within a dozen steps, I noticed I wasn’t putting as much weight on it as I should. The rocky terrain added to the difficulty, but that didn’t matter. I had to get to her and pull her from the plane before she burned to death, and then together we’d have to reach the other side of the Don before the Germans came. Surely they saw my parachute and were on their way to capture us both. Or at the very least, help their pilot return to his airfield.
I glanced over my shoulder toward the river. It was a kilometer or two away, which meant judging from the smoke rise, Martyona’s crash was at least three kilometers from the water. I worried I wouldn’t be able to drag her that far if she were wounded, but I told myself I could find a way to bring her across the river and all the way back to Anisovka if I had enough faith in myself.
A throbbing built in my foot, as if it might burst from my boot. When I crested a small rise, breathless and teary eyed, I looked down upon the wreck. Her plane was as scattered as my hopes were for her survival. The wings, tail, and part of the rear were gone—but the main body remained. My eyes widened. A fool’s optimism sprang to life. Not only did the fuselage remain, but it looked like the cockpit was still intact.
“I’m here! I’m here!” I shouted, limping forward. I grunted and let the pain in my leg redouble my efforts. When I got to what was left of her Yak-1, I climbed it as best I could to get to the cockpit. Portions of hot metal seared my hands, but I didn’t care, especially when I realized the cockpit hadn’t been spared at all.
“God, no,” I whispered. What I had thought was the entire fuselage was half of it turned on its side with a portion of the canopy still attached. Bits of controls, seat, pedals, and twisted metal were strewn around. I saw Martyona’s body a few meters away, charred and torn in two, and fell off the plane. I vomited until my stomach had nothing left.
A gunshot cracked through the air, and dirt kicked up a few meters away. I scrambled forward, taking cover behind the remains of the fuselage. Drawing my Mosin Nagant revolver from its holster, I dared a peek.
The waning evening light made details difficult to see, but a German leaned around a small tree a few dozen meters away with a 9mm Luger in hand. By his light jacket, trousers, and boots—not to mention lack of rifle or submachine gun—I assumed he was the German ace I’d been fighting.
He rattled something off in German. I hadn’t a clue what he said, but figured my response was universal enough. I answered him with a gunshot. I hoped it would take off his head, but all it did was dig a little hole in the ground some forty meters behind him.
The man ducked behind the tree. He laughed and called out to me. “Apologies. I forgot you probably don’t speak German. So quick to shoot. Good for me your aim is as bad down here as it is up there.”
He mangled his Russian and his accent was still as German as ever, but I could understand him. “Funny. You missed me, too.” I replied.
“A woman?” I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the shock in his voice. “This world is full of surprises. But I missed on purpose.”
I snorted. “Why? Wanting to court me?”
The man laughed again. “No, but I dare say you’d be interesting if we did. I wanted you to drop your weapon so we could properly talk.”
“I won’t let you capture me,” I said, checking my revolver. I had six shots left, which meant I had five to fight with. The last one was reserved for me. I prayed it wouldn’t come down to that.
“I guessed as much since neither one of our sides treats prisoners well,” he said. “But I’ve never met any of my opponents. I’ve wanted to for a while now.”
A stabbing pain built in my hands and arms, and it dawned on me that the adrenaline that had kept my mind off my injuries must be fading. I turned my head when I heard the engine of an approaching vehicle, and I knew I had to get out of there. I kept my weapon aimed at the tree, and retreated toward the Don. I saw the German peek at me once, but he said nothing else and he didn’t try and stop me. Why, I hadn’t a clue, but I was grateful to God for whatever protections He saw fit to bless me with.
My ankle protested each step I took as I hobbled. I heard Martyona’s voice urging me on, one step at a time, and from it I took a cautious optimism I’d make it home. Up until that point, I’d always known life could be harsh, but never appreciated it would be harsh to me. My dreams as a little girl were always adventures filled with magic and travel, never terrifying. Nightmares happened to other people, yet there I was, part of the others. I told myself this wasn’t the end, and I’d pass this story down to my children’s children’s children, to inspire them to never give up, to always believe in themselves. I’d like to think that’s what gave me strength to carry on.
I also thought of my father, of his father, of my entire lineage of warriors who had fought and suffered throughout history. I told myself they had had it worse than I did and still pressed on. How could I allow myself to succumb to a few burns and a twisted ankle? And if that wasn’t enough, I thought about what the Germans would do to me. I’d be lucky if they’d shoot me on the spot. There would be rape, torture.
Worse, if the Soviets liberated me, German treatment paled in comparison to what the NKVD would do. They would test me to be sure I wasn’t a fascist sympathizer. I, like everyone else, was well aware of Stalin’s Order 270 given last year. In it he’d said, “There are no Soviet prisoners of war, only traitors.”
Vehicle sounds grew, and with them I heard the all-too-familiar squeaky noise of moving tank treads. At the top of the hill, I thought I could make out the outline of a German armored vehicle. It was hard to see now that the sun was gone and only a sliver of moon hung in the night sky, but with a full Panzer division in the area, there wasn’t a lot of guess work to what it was.
I hobbled toward the Don, praying the darkness would cover my movements. I surprised myself at how fast I could go, injuries and all. Without warning, the ground gave way under my feet, and I toppled headlong down a steep incline. I twisted and bounced down the slope, crying out several times along the way. When I slid to a stop, fire ran through my hands, and I could barely move my right leg. I half thought it would feel better if I chopped it off.
“Hier! Schnell! Schnell!”
I bolted upright. The shouts couldn’t have been more than fifty meters away, near the top of the embankment I fell from. God, how had they tracked me in such darkness? Had the German ace been following me, leading them? Or was I cursed and happened to tumble near a German patrol?