Raptor Aces

  His manner is easy and friendly; he reminds me of Bekar in a way. His face is unnaturally aged, though, and he regards me with weary sadness. I’ve never seen so much sadness in anyone’s eyes.

  I return to the Athens realm and wedge myself into our now restricted space.

  “Well done, Dytran,” Katella says. “You should be a diplomat.”

  “Right,” I say, mustering as much sarcasm as possible.

  “I mean it,” Katella says. “Once all this is over, keep it in mind.”

  Yes, a comfortable post in some consulate sounds pretty good about now. Nice clothes, elegant ladies, banquets ...

  I sum up my mood in a single word. “Crap!”

  ***

  The kilometers clack by under the wheels of our groaning boxcar until it is time for the evening rations. The soldiers aren’t bad sorts. They mingle with us of the Athens flight and even share the choice food they’ve obtained during their leave time. They also dispense comradely advice.

  “Let me tell you, boys,” one of them says, “it’s all nuts out there. Just concentrate on keeping alive and getting back in one piece.”

  “The slobes are no pushovers,” another one adds. “They’re putting up one hell of a fight! They’re animals, all of them.”

  “God help us if those savages push us back into the Fatherland,” a third one says. “It would mean the end of civilization.”

  We are all shocked at such blunt talk, but we say nothing.

  Their conversation among themselves deals with the usual things – women, getting drunk, their “bastard officers” at the front. Hatred for the enemy, fear of army discipline. Not a word about our mission to civilize pagan lands or the joys of being a member of the master race.

  A dominant theme runs through everything like a red thread: the second front.

  Their hopes run high that another war will soon break out on the eastern frontier of the slobe empire to relieve the pressure on them. They constantly strain their ears for any word of it in the news; magnify every report of a border clash into a full-blown invasion. The tiniest rumor can raise their spirits to the heavens or dash them into a pit. They yearn for, pray for, and wager on the opening of a second front.

  Beltran chooses not to join our camaraderie, and his Spartans have to follow suit despite their longing glances at the bread and sausages we are consuming. The soldier who had taunted Bel earlier tries to invite him over.

  “No hard feelings, lad,” he says. “Come, have some sausage.”

  Beltran mutters something about not feeling well. The rifleman shrugs and turns his attention elsewhere. Fine, there is more for us to eat now. I hope that Bezmir is particularly hungry. Sipren must understand my thinking, judging by the furtive way he nibbles his portion.

  I am not surprised at Bel’s attitude. Conflict is built into his nature, and there will always be something for his resentment to gnaw on. I just don’t want it gnawing on me.

  ***

  Everyone sacks out early. It is a warm night, and we keep the sliding door open. Summer fragrances waft over us along with the beat of the wheels and smoke from the troopers’ final cigarettes. An occasional foul note of burnt coal from the locomotive adds itself to the mix. My bedroll is next to Katella’s on the edge of our group. The others, especially Sipren, know better than to try cozying up to me.

  It is a time to be philosophical.

  “Who’d have thought it would come to this?” I say. “Why did we have do something like that slobe dive?”

  “Because we could,” Katella replies.

  That is a true enough answer, but not a very satisfying one. My attempt to find a deeper meaning to this incredible string of cause and effect seems doomed from the start. I roll over and look toward the Spartan corner. As usual, Bel has his pen light on for some late reading.

  I wonder how the world looks to him. How would it look to me in his shoes? What would I be thinking now if I had no family and no girl waiting for me back home?

  He was raised in State orphanages and, as far as I know, he’s never had a girlfriend. He isn’t ugly, but he isn’t all that attractive either with his swarthy complexion and bristling hair. And his gruff personality puts women off in any case.

  Girls of our generation are taught to prefer the fair-haired types, like me. Why would I object to that? On the contrary, I’ve bought into it big time, strutting around with the confidence of a minor league god. I deserve the best of everything by virtue of my looks.

  It wasn’t until I met Bel that my sense of superiority began to waver.

  Beltran may lack ‘the look’ but he possesses a tough, determined character along with consummate flying skill. He never holds anything back, nothing scares him. Other males are drawn instinctively to his leadership.

  It’s true that many more girls look at me than at him, but what does that matter behind the stick of an airplane, up high in the world that really counts? There, Beltran is the greatest. He is better than me, I fear.

  But now is not the time for such ramblings – not while Stilikan lies unavenged within his cremation urn. Once I’ve inflicted harsh punishment on his murderers, then I can think through other issues.

  25. A Warm Reception

  Days of monotony drift by as we slowly traverse the captured eastern territories, like a caterpillar inching along the surface of an alien planet. All around sprawls a vast wilderness of abandoned fields, burned houses and barns, destroyed villages. In many areas giant thistle type plants, two meters high, overgrow the once productive farms.

  This is supposed to be our nation’s new ‘breadbasket,’ but it looks more like a wasteland. Seeing it, I understand the reasons behind our constantly shrinking food rations back home.

  “The slobes didn’t leave us much when they pulled out,” the sergeant observes, “and their partisans keep our settlers from cultivating the fields.”

  Yes, the partisans. I have business with those people.

  The sergeant has taken a shine to me – perhaps because, like him, I am well educated. His men are rough country or small town guys and can’t have provided much intellectual stimulation for him. Or maybe I remind him of a younger relative. Or maybe he appreciates the fine cigarettes I dole out from my stash, the ones that Bekar pressed me to take along “just in case.”

  Who knows? I’m learning that friendships arise quickly in war time.

  Our train makes frequent stops, often because partisans have blown up the track ahead of us. We carry our own repair crew and extra rail, so these delays are usually not serious. Sometimes we pull over to allow faster, more urgent trains to pass. We wait on a siding while a priority express, laden with heavy weapons and equipment, roars past behind a powerful locomotive.

  Our locomotive is a gasping, wheezing relic. We lost our original engine some time back when it was requisitioned for more urgent cargoes. We are slowed further when an armored ‘fortress car’ bristling with guns is attached to our train.

  The soldiers in our boxcar express approval at this addition, but what really cheers them up is the presence of our airplanes overhead. Pairs of fighter bombers streak back and forth, or single light planes, like our own, hover around, ready to call in ground attack support at a moment’s notice. When the sky is empty, the soldiers grow uncomfortable.

  “We owe you flyboys a lot,” the sergeant says, “even though we hate to admit it.”

  “Yes, you guys have saved our bacon more than once,” a rifleman agrees.

  “An airplane in time saves my behind,” another jokes.

  We all find this to be hilarious, except for Bel and his Spartans who never join in our banter. They keep to themselves at all times, tightening their bond. Clearly, we are not part of their ‘us’ group.

  At least we have ample opportunities to get out of the boxcar and stretch our legs. We are cautioned not to venture far from the train, though. Partisan bands could be lurking anywhere.

  During one of these ‘piss stops,’ the ser
geant and I are relaxing near the front of the engine smoking cigarettes. I’ve dropped my previous objection to smoking and indulge myself now and then. Why not? I am reminded of a cartoon I once saw in a magazine:

  A guy is standing before a firing squad; he is offered a last cigarette.

  “No thanks,” he says, “I’m trying to quit.”

  It has been some hours since our previous stop, and I am glad for the chance to unwind myself. The weather is not too hot, and the sky is a vibrant blue. I’ve changed into clean underwear and socks and am feeling somewhat refreshed. Things are about as good as they are likely to get in this vast, alien landscape.

  Then a grim sight intrudes.

  Coming slowly toward us from the east is a train as decrepit as our own, but it carries a much different cargo. A flatcar hitched in front of the locomotive is jammed full with standing men.

  “What the hell is that?” I say.

  “Slobe prisoners,” the sergeant replies. “Those in front are the human shields, in case the partisans try to attack.”

  The flatcar nears. Its occupants stare at us through sunken eyes. They are ragged, filthy, starved. Many appear to be wounded. I instinctively lower my cigarette out of view so as not to torment them further. Stone-faced guards keep watch over the prisoners with submachine guns.

  The engine labors past, then more flatcars, all with similar loads. Each car bears several prostrate men – corpses apparently, or nearly so. A foul odor of death and filth attends the procession.

  “That’s inhuman!” I say.

  The sergeant spits on the ground.

  “Do you think they treat our men any better?”

  An hour passes and we still haven’t moved. The prisoner train has sucked out whatever pleasantness we’d tried to find in the day. The wasteland spreads around us like a hungry wraith, pulling our minds to the far horizon.

  None of us Raptor Aces have ever seen such an endless expanse before. My squadron mates huddle together in little clumps as if to reassure each other. The sergeant is all the reassurance I need. His hardened face and slit-down eyes present an impassive barrier to the agoraphobic dread gripping the others.

  “When I’m on leave, I can almost regard the enemy as being men like ourselves,” the sergeant says. “But when I’m back at the front, Piotra is nothing more than a wild beast that must be exterminated.”

  Never have I felt more like a green, pampered youth. I am simply not qualified to comment on this observation.

  “Out there we all turn into savages,” the sergeant continues. “We truly believe that we’re facing subhumans. Such belief is the only way to survive.”

  I light another cigarette to cover my agitation, though I am a bit light headed from the previous one.

  Finally, a second train comes into view from the east. This one carries our own wounded men – box car after box car, some festooned with prominent red crosses. The sergeant spits again.

  “Why do they paint those stupid crosses?” he says. “The partisans just use them for target practice.”

  I can see tiers of bunks inside the cars, each one holding a casualty – another young man to recover and return to the fighting, or else live out the remainder of his life disabled. Some of the less severely injured men sit by the open doors.

  “What are you doing out here?” one of them calls to us.

  “You’re headed the wrong way!” others yell. “Get the hell out while you still can!”

  ***

  Finally we get moving. At the next junction we turn due south and continue at, what is for us, blistering speed until long after sunset. Then we turn an easterly direction again and slow to our usual crawl.

  To the north, massed artillery thunders. Our train sometimes rocks from the concussions. Crimson flashes stab along the horizon like the fires of hell. We Raptor Aces observe the spectacle with a mix of horror and fascination. The veterans remain stoic.

  “Looks like Piotra’s taking back some more of his farms,” a rifleman mutters.

  ***

  The last morning of our journey dawns. The land is now of a more familiar type – woods, fields and rolling hills, even some intact farms and villages. Clearly the enemy did not have time to follow their ‘scorched earth’ policy here with the thoroughness we’d seen on the open steppe.

  The soldiers remain their usual selves, bantering, cussing, bellyaching. It is impossible to tell how they feel about our impending arrival. But among us Raptor Aces, a lessening of tension occurs. Finally, the long trek is ending and we can get on with our missions. We have a purpose again. Even Bel lightens up.

  He looks rather out of place sitting among the fair-haired boys of the Sparta flight. I’ve often wondered if I shouldn’t have taken the former Blue Ice squadron members myself and given Beltran the others, except for Katella. That way I could start over fresh, get rid of Orpad and Grushon who had once turned on me so viciously.

  But I hadn’t done that. It seemed like cowardice to dump my problems onto Bel. And I respect the common wisdom: keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Until now, our two flights have remained segregated, even during the piss breaks. This way the units can develop some group cohesion. Bel seems to have made good progress with the Sparta flight. Even the shared sacrifice of refusing to accept food during our first night serves to weld them together. When they move, it is as a team. Bel speaks for them in all matters.

  My personal circle includes Katella, the sergeant, and a few riflemen. I’ve scarcely given a thought to the other pilots in my flight. Katella has pretty much taken over as second in command, and the others speak to him if they have any concerns. As much as I dislike admitting it, I care little about the others. My desire is that I will not have to deal with them much at the front.

  I am surprised when, just as we are nearing our depot, Bel moves back to sit with me.

  “Hello, stranger,” I say.

  “Hello, Dye.”

  “I’d have thought you’d stay up there so you could arrive first,” I say.

  Bel grins. “You know, I considered that. But a couple of seconds won’t matter much, will it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He looks toward Katella. “How’s it going?”

  “All right,” Katella says.

  “My butt’s a bit numb, otherwise I’m fine,” Bel replies.

  Despite this awkward try at humor, the tension between them is obvious. The hatchet from the slobe diving incident does not seem to have been buried yet. Bel turns back to me and lowers his voice.

  “I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all this,” he says, “and that you can count on me in any situation.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, “thanks.”

  “I mean it,” Bel says, “any situation. I’m not a B.S.-er, you know that.”

  I hold up my hand.

  “Athens and Sparta,” I say, “in it to the end.”

  “Damn right!” Bel clasps my hand.

  The train halts with a screech of its overtaxed brakes

  “Well, lads,” a trooper says, “here we are, safe and sound!”

  A massive explosion rocks the train, thrusting us upward like a child’s toy. We crash back down as a sheet of flame roars through the car. The world becomes an inferno of screams, gunfire, and burning flesh.

  “Partisans!” somebody yells.

  Somehow, I get to the door and fling myself outside. Others drop nearby, some cut to pieces by gunfire before they can touch the ground. Bullets whistle over my head, and I hug the earth for dear life.

  The heavy guns of the fortress car opened up, adding to the hellish racket. Soldiers around me fire their rifles from prone positions. The war god howls for blood amid the stench of fire and explosives.

  Then it is over, as quickly as it began. Silence, except for the crackling of flames and moans of the wounded.

  Somebody rolls me onto my back.

  “My god, Dytran! Are you all right?”


  I open my eyes and Beltran blurs into focus. He seems unharmed, thank God. I am lying in a pool of blood, but it’s somebody else’s.

  “I-I’m ... alive,” I say.

  26. ZOD

  When I regain some of my faculties, I am able to take in the full extent of the disaster. A charge hidden beneath the rails by some partisan saboteur blew the front of our boxcar to smithereens, along with the car ahead of us. Other partisans opened fire from the woods, then melted away before our ground units could engage them.

  The carnage is unspeakable – a horror show of blood and mangled bodies even worse than the one presented by the air raid. I’d only been an observer to that attack, but here I am one of the victims myself.

  The entire Sparta flight has been killed, except for Bel. Many of the soldiers, including the sergeant, also died in the holocaust. By some miracle, the Athens flight survived. Our position tucked into the rear of the boxcar proved to be our deliverance.

  Elsewhere along the train, several of our aircraft are riddled with bullets. I do not know how extensive the damage is. But with only seven pilots remaining, there should be enough serviceable planes for everyone.

  I am taken to the infirmary. Except for ringing ears and a few nasty scrapes, I am judged to be “well.” But after this experience, I wonder if I’ll never be well again.

  Lying in the blood pool had been the worst part. I can still feel the hot, terrifying substance clinging to my skin, even though I’ve been scrubbed and clad in fresh clothing.

  ***

  My head is still throbbing from the train depot catastrophe when I fly my first mission – an ammo drop to a forward infantry unit. Y-47 has taken some bullet strikes, though not in critical locations; she is quickly patched and deemed fit for service, as I am.

  The trauma of the explosion, the screams and gunfire, have taken possession of my mind, along with the stench of blood and death. I need to get these frightful apparitions out – focus only on the mission.

  And it is a difficult one that exceeds my aircraft’s design parameters.

  The loading personnel jam Y-47’s rear cockpit full of ammunition and grenades. They sling pylons filled with more ammo under each wing. They even give me a belt of machine gun bullets to wear around my neck like a prayer shawl.

  “How much does all this stuff weigh?” I ask one of the loaders, a draftee scarcely older than myself.