“Could we not talk about a raging inferno?” I said, cringing.
Alexandra cursed. “Sorry. Forget I said that. We’ll be back home nibbling chocolate and sipping wine before you know it.”
“Except you don’t have either.”
“Stop spoiling my fantasy, you dullard,” she said with a laugh. “I’m trying to help. Think of something pleasant instead of being so argumentative.”
So I did. I thought about riding horses back home, singing for my grandmother, and being read to by Father when I was five. Sadly, those thoughts all led to the same thing. I’d never see my family again.
My eyes locked on the clock that sat to the bottom left of the console. I found the second hand’s ticking hypnotic. Klara’s words about finding beauty in moments of angst came back, and so I tried to look at everything in a new light. The sky was a gorgeous blue and reminded me of pure water from mountain lakes. The howling coming from the hole in my cockpit sounded like how Grandfather would blow across a jug when I was young.
The blood still rattled me. I ran my hand over my head, and cringed at the stickiness it left behind. Frustrated, I looked at my palm, and that’s when I noticed the gash in my glove. Blood seeped from the hole, and I peeled back the leather to get a better view.
“God, I’m such a fool,” I said, laughing so hard Alexandra had to pull her plane away when I knocked the controls.
“What?”
“Shrapnel cut my hand. Nothing bad, but it’s messy.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not one bit. Half dozen stitches at the most.”
Despite the minor injury, I hit the side of my canopy, disgusted at what it represented. I’d been incredibly lucky, and had I been flying better, clearer, I could’ve avoided the hit altogether. God, this morphine road was not one I wanted to walk down any further, but the pain from my wounds wouldn’t simply go away either. Though I didn’t have an answer for the latter, I hastily pulled out the syrette and threw it out the hole the AA gun had made in my cockpit. I even spit after it for good measure. I’d find a way to cope, I prayed, for my wingman’s life if not my own.
We flew the rest of the flight without incident, sticking low and fast to the ground. I was certain when we landed Major Gridnev would be glad with our efforts. It turned out glad was an understatement. Once we were debriefed, he was thrilled. He did, however, make me promise two things before leaving. First, to get my hand looked at, and second, to never get shot up again. A 20mm shell through the cockpit was too close of a call for him, especially as it was his first official day as the commanding officer, and we were flying missions brass hadn’t a clue about.
At Doctor Burak’s office, my hand needed nine stitches. He tried to make small talk with me, even tried a couple of not-so-subtle passes. I paid half attention to him as he worked. My mind was thinking about the hit I took.
How was I still alive? Had the shot been a little lower, it would have taken off my leg. A little higher and rearward and it would have ripped through my chest. And why did the shell explode mostly on the outside of the plane? They had fuses that were designed to penetrate an aircraft a certain amount before detonating. Had the shell exploded inside, I might as well have had a grenade in my lap.
I left the doctor’s office and wondered if God was looking out for me after all. Grandmother would have said so, always did. If He was, why hadn’t He looked after Martyona or Valeriia? Were they worse than me? On the other hand, maybe He was toying with me, flaunting His power and showing He could save me or end me on a whim. Or maybe it was a wakeup call about my drug use. Who the hell knew?
I rubbed my temples, worried at how little sense my train of thought had. The morphine was still in my system and felt stronger than before. I had to be peaking. I couldn’t feel any pain from my burns, and if I could think better, maybe I could work all this out.
My head cleared by lunch, and I realized how unfit to fly I was on the drug. I came to this conclusion when it dawned on me Alexandra had given most of the debriefing—thankfully—and I was barely able to remember the general order of events, let alone specific details.
Anger at endangering my wingman’s life in such a careless fashion reignited in my soul. Preserving my self-worth as a pilot wasn’t worth losing anyone over, especially such a dear friend. I could tough it out. I could fly. I had to. I’d find a way to manage my burns and bring down Rademacher.
That anger turned into self-loathing when I thought about the German and how I was sure he’d never stoop to using drugs as a way to cope. He had me there, sadly, a far more strong-willed individual than I proved to be, yet another trait of his I was envious of. But at least I was determined to quit. I had that going. And at least my family would never know. God, that would send both parents to an early grave out of shame if they ever found out.
My determination to stop the morphine did lift my mood, and I napped through the afternoon. I skipped supper when I briefly rose, deciding I was so tired I could easily sleep until morning. Sometime around midnight, I was torn from sleep by thunder in the skies and lighting coursing through my hand. It felt like I was being stabbed over and over, and for five minutes I lay in bed, gritting my teeth, sweating profusely as I promised myself I’d endure at all costs. I even prayed for strength.
At some point, I had a syrette in hand and wanted to use it more than ever. Alexandra stirred, giving me a jolt and a panicked escape from my desires. I was too afraid to get out of bed and rummage for my box for fear of getting caught, so I cautiously slipped the syrette into a hole in the mattress. I promised myself I’d destroy it and the rest later. As I finally fell back asleep, I prayed I’d have the resolve to do so when the time came.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning I woke, unsure what the day would bring. I wasn’t scheduled for patrols since my fighter was so torn up that Klara would need a day or so to patch the damage and clean out the cockpit. Or so I assumed. I hadn’t seen her since I’d returned. All that changed when I left the mess hall after a hearty breakfast of stale bread, bland cheese, and frigid water, and bumped into her on the airfield.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” she said. Her eyes held a fire I’d never seen before, and she toyed with the wrench in her hand as if she wanted to brain someone with it.
“What are you talking about?”
“You come back with a hole blown through the cockpit, your blood everywhere, and you can’t even bother to tell me you’re all right?”
A pit of guilt took home in my stomach. God, how had I forgotten? The Divine didn’t have to respond for me to know the answer: morphine. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I stepped closer in an effort to diffuse her anger, and she shied away. “I don’t know what to say. We came back, and I wasn’t thinking—”
“That’s just it, Nadya, you weren’t thinking. Damn it, I already had to clean one body up. You could’ve at least checked in with me when you returned instead of giving me a damn heart attack when I got to your plane.”
“One body?” I barely got the words out, and I wondered if forgetting most of yesterday was a blessing or a curse. “Who?”
Klara grunted, and she looked at me with equal parts incredulity and concern. “The mail plane crashed yesterday,” she said. “I helped pick up pieces of the pilot. After that, when I got done washing, I found the inside of your fighter.”
Her face paled, and her eyes looked distant. The memory, fresh as ever, tormented her. My words, however, were anything but understanding and the moment I spoke them, I wished I could’ve taken them back. “You should’ve asked Alexandra.”