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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
“… 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
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