He climbed into the cockpit. Sergeant Kuchkov was already at his station in the bomb bay. The Chimp didn’t worry about contradictions in the Party line. He’d drop the bombs. He’d shoot at whatever tried to attack the SB-2. He’d get back to the airstrip and he’d drink and swear and try to get laid. He hadn’t come down venereal yet, but not from lack of effort.
Nothing looked bad on the preflight checks. The engines started up right away. The familiar roar and vibration filled Sergei. Groundcrew men pulled out the chocks in front of his wheels. He taxied down the dirt runway and took off. The heavily laden SB-2 wasn’t a hot performer, but it flew, it flew.
It hadn’t flown far when antiaircraft guns opened up on it. “Are the Nazis this far east already?” Federov shouted through the din.
“No-these are our guns, dammit,” Sergei shouted back. “The stupid muzhiks down below see anything in the air, they think it has to belong to the Germans.”
The Germans had come farther east than they had on the last mission the SB-2 had flown, the day before. Fire and smoke did a good job of announcing where their panzers were-where Soviet forces were in trouble, in other words. And so did antiaircraft fire of a sort entirely different from what the Red Air Force bombers had got a few minutes before. When the Nazis started shooting, the shells burst all around the SB-2s. Every one of them seemed much too close.
One scored a direct hit on a bomber in front of Sergei. The last third of a wing parted company with the rest of the plane. Fire raced up the wing root toward the fuselage. The SB-2 lurched out of formation and tumbled downward. Sergei looked for parachutes, but didn’t see any.
“Bozhemoi!” Behind the oxygen mask, Vladimir Federov’s face was white as milk. “They’re murdering us!”
“Well, we need to pay them back, then.” Sergei found what he was looking for: Nazi flags spread out on the ground. Both sides used their national emblems to keep from getting hit by their own aircraft. But the recognition signals could also turn into targets. Sergei pointed through the cockpit glass. “There. That’s what we want.”
“All right.” No matter how shaken Federov was, he had a job to do. And the sooner he does it, the sooner we drop our bombs, the sooner we can get the devil out of here, Sergei thought.
But before the bomb-aimer could line up the SB-2 on the swastika flags far below, a frantic shout dinned in Sergei’s earphones: “Messerschmitts!”
“Drop the bombs, Kuchkov!” Sergei ordered at once. “Right now!” They’d come down on somebody’s head: with luck, on some German’s. He wanted the plane as light as he could make it. He also didn’t want machine-gun bullets tearing into all those explosives. That was asking to turn into a fireball in the sky.
“Bombs away!” the Chimp yelled, sending them earthward with some choice obscenities. Then he asked, “Nazi cocksuckers jumping us?”
“Da,” Sergei said. He still hadn’t seen any 109s. But, one after another, three SB-2s spun toward the ground, two burning, the other out of control-maybe the pilot was already dead. With the bombs gone, he had no reason to stick around any more. He had no desire to, either. He swung the bomber into as tight a turn as he could manage and gave it full throttle back toward the east.
A 109 shot across his path. He had two forward-facing machine guns in the cockpit. He squeezed off a long burst at the German plane. He didn’t hit it. He hadn’t really expected to. He did want to warn it he was alert and ready to fight. Let it go after some sleepier pilot.
It must have worked. Kuchkov, in the dorsal turret now, didn’t start shooting at anything. And no bullets came ripping up through the bomber’s now empty belly. Sergei looked wildly around the sky. Some of the other SB- 2s had also escaped. One of them had a starboard engine that trailed smoke. He hoped it would keep flying till it found the airstrip.
“That was… very bad.” Federov seemed to be trying his best to stay calm, or at least to seem calm.
Sergei respected him for that. You had to do it in combat. Showing how scared you were didn’t do any good. Everybody was scared. You had to keep going anyway. If you didn’t, you only made getting yourself killed more likely.
Sergei wondered whether Stukas would have cratered the airstrip. He didn’t want to try to land on a highway or in the middle of a field of new-planted barley.
He didn’t have to, to his vast relief. He taxied into a revetment. Groundcrew men covered the SB-2 with camouflage netting. In the gloom, he reached out and set a hand on Federov’s shoulder. “We made it. One more time, we made it.”
“But how often can we keep getting away with it?” the copilot asked. “I know the plane used to be able to run away from fighters, but not any more. The idea is for us to hurt the enemy, right? Not for him to shoot us down? How many of our guys didn’t come back today?”
“Too many. Maybe some landed at other strips, but too many any way you look at it,” Sergei answered.
“One of the planes that went down was Colonel Borisov’s,” Federov said.
“The squadron commander’s? Are you sure? I didn’t see that.” Sergei wasn’t sure what to think about it, either. Borisov had too much apparatchik in him to get close to the men he led, but he was a good administrator and a brave enough pilot. He had been, anyhow.
“I’m positive,” Federov said.
“One more thing, then,” Sergei said wearily. He unhooked his flying harness. “Well, let’s go report to… whoever we report to.”
“Broad Street Station!” the conductor bawled as the train down from New York City slowed to a stop. “All out for Broad Street station! Philadelphia!”
“Oh, my God!” Peggy Druce dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she pulled from a purse. She didn’t need the fellow in the kepi yelling at her. That Gothic pile of brick, granite, and terra cotta couldn’t be anything else. It meant she was home. She wouldn’t have believed it, but it was true. More than a year and a half after she set out on what was going to be a month in Europe, here she was.
If I ever, ever set one toe outside the borders of the US of A again, somebody ought to whack me in the head with a two-by-four, she thought. She’d almost been whacked with plenty of worse things in too many different places in Europe.
People were getting up and heading for the door. Lucky for them, too, because she would have stepped on them if they weren’t moving the way she wanted to go. A liner back to New York from London. No sign of U-boats, for which she thanked God. Not the smoothest passage, but not the choppiest, either. She was a good sailor. She didn’t lose any victuals.
Almost all the clothes she brought back she’d bought on the other side of the Atlantic. What she’d brought with her hadn’t been meant for staying away so long. That interested the hell out of the American customs inspectors. Even after she explained what had happened to her- backing everything up with the stamps and visas in her passport-they didn’t want to listen. All they wanted to do was collect duty, and collect they did. The Nazis couldn’t have been more inflexible.
But she wouldn’t think about the goddamn Nazis now. After all, she’d crossed the Atlantic so she wouldn’t have to think about the Nazis again, or deal with their arrogance. And so she’d dealt with American arrogance at customs instead.
“Watch yo’ step, ma’am,” a colored porter said as she descended. He touched a callused finger to the shiny brim of his cap. She nodded back at him. She hadn’t seen any Negroes all the time she was in Europe. This chubby fellow was just one more reminder she was back where she belonged.
Down three wooden steps and onto the platform. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, parents and children were all milling around and falling into one another’s arms. They were hugging and squealing and kissing. They were…
“Herb!” Peggy let out a squeal of her own. She might have been a bobby-soxer getting all excited about the latest skinny crooner from Hoboken, not a respectable woman of middle years running toward a prosperous gent in a gray pinstriped suit and a fedora whose band and brim told the world it wasn’t quite the latest style.
“Peggy!” He squeezed the breath out of her. He wasn’t usually one for public displays, but then she didn’t usually get stuck in the middle of a world war. He smelled of aftershave and American cigarettes-good smells, familiar smells, she’d almost forgotten about in her crowded time overseas. And he smelled of himself, which was even better and even more familiar.
