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Spring 1942, near Smolensk,

The Second Staffel called her "Katze." There weren't a lot of women in the Luftwaffe, and any one usually created a swarm of controversy anywhere she went. But after the success of Hanna Reitsch, even the Fuhrer was persuaded to let some women fly for the Fatherland, but in secret. If they were as successful as Hanna, then Germany would have another great propaganda weapon.

At least that's what Dr. Goebbels thought. That's how Katze came to the second Staffel. They'd just received the new version of the Bf-109, and Katze flew in one of the first examples for training. The four new "G" models were called "gustav" by the pilots-they were welcome trades for the F-2 models the Staffel had been flying. All looked forward to the power of the new MG151/20, and all hoped the new 109 would be on par with the Friederich-4 they'd heard so much about.

Gustav-2 had more power than the Friederich, Katze told them, and more protection for the pilots. It was a better plane, she said. They started calling her Katze when, on her Rotte's first training flight they'd bounced a pack of Friederichs from high above, screaming past their startled comrades before they'd had time to react. "She pounces like a hungry kitten!" the men laughed. Katze's skills weren't questioned after that.

Her 109G-2 carried simple green and grey RLM camouflage, with bright yellow marlings to stand it out, but the only way you could tell it was hers was the Rottefuhrer chevron where everyone else had numbers. On this day in 1942 she would become an ace.

Katze led the Rotte today in a sweep near a known Russian airbase. Rumour had it that the Popovs would be about today, and with Stukas on their way to the front, the Obergruppenfuhrer wanted the skies clear for the ponderous dive-bombers. The American P-39 fighters were showing up in large numbers, and the huge 37mm cannon was striking fear into Luftwaffe pilots all over the Front. The second Staffel figured that the Gustav-2 might even up the ledger.

Achtung, jaeger!!

The call brought Katze out of her reverie and into the world. Past the fluffy clouds on the horizon, four greenish-silver shapes were approaching from the East. From the wrong way. It was the enemy, she was certain. She keyed her mike and gave the order to pick targets and engage, and her comrades joyfully replied, the Rotte breaking down into component elements as the Soviets approached.

These weren't the LaGG or MiG fighters-they were the P-39s! The ones from America, the ones the Germans had heard so much about. A brief spasm of fear twisted Katze's stomach as she reached for the switches to charge the Gustav's 7.92mm guns and the MG151/20 cannon. "Nein, nein. They're just like us-not gods. That gun doesn't make them supermen."

They closed like rockets, the green Soviet aircraft with their bright red stars flashing by in a swarm of bright crimson tracers. The Germans split two by two, Katze and her No. 3 pulling hard into the enemy.

She found her sights on the enemy leader, and firewalled her throttle; the P-39 was firing at her wingman, bright orange flames from its center cannon. One hit from the P-39 would kill her No. 2.

The distance closed faster than thought-the Gustav's new powerplant had plenty of guts. Katze held her breath and squeezed the triggers. Bright blue and red lanced out and across the Russian's rear fuselage, chunks ripping from his wing and smoke belching from the Allison engine. But the closure rate was too fast-Katze slammed her throttle shut and wrenched the Gustav into a ticht barrel roll to keep from overshooting as she heard her No. 2 call that he was bailing out.

At the top of her roll, Katze thought she'd have to bail too-the Gustav had departed into a murderous wing-over-wing spin. Desperately, she slammed down the opposite rudder pedal and centered her stick, bringing the 109 into a controlled dive. The Russian had not been so lucky. The P-39 was in a flat spin and out of control; it briefly recovered, then fell back into its spin as she watched, spiraling into the ground.

"Katze, good shot! He's going straight to hell!" Hans, No. 3, was still up there.

"Katze, hilfe!!" No. 3 was in trouble, too. Hard on the tail of a P-39, another had slipped in behind him. Katze was close, she slammed the throttle to the firewall and took her place in a deadly flying circus. The P-39 was trying to get into firing position on Hans and erase him from the fight. With Wolfgang dangling in a parachute and Ludwig nowhere to be seen, Katze would be all alone against two angry Russians and she knew it.

The Gustav-2 closed with the P-39. Suddenly, the Russian wrenched violently to the left and dived for the ground! Someone had warned him! Hans was safe for now, but this Popov couldn't be allowed to run free! Shouting a warning to Hans, Katze pulled a sharp wing-over and followed the American-built fighter into a sharp, wild rollercoaster ride over the gently sloping ground. At the bottom of a roll coming out of a hard loop, the Russian lost it, snapping into a spin with only fifty meters of altitude. As Katze fought to keep the 109 stable, the Bell fighter slammed into a ridge-line in a spectacular explosion.

Ludwig was calling for help now, but was nowhere to be seen. On the radio, Katze found he was far to the north-five minutes' flight at least, one-on-one with a P-39. Satisfied that he could hold on, Katze joined up with Hans, on the tail of the Russian that had survived their circus.

"He's good, Katze-I can't get a shot!"

"Cover me, Hans, let me try."

Another wild roller coaster ride began, as Katze slipped past Hans into the slot. This Russian was good, an energy fighter. The P-39 was, amazingly, keeping a speed edge over the Germans, forcing them into a series of lightning-quick head to head jousts. None were able to take aim long enough to shoot! After the fourth pass, just as the Russian blasted by so close she could see the red stars and bright white "03" on the fuselage, Katze pulled her Gustav sharply vertical, coming out of an Immelman above and behind the P-39, and nosing into a shallow dive, began to pick up speed. The Russian started into a turn, but red tracer whizzing past his cockpit from maximum range changed his mind. Katze and Hans turned it into a tail chase, and this is when the roller-coaster rise began in earnest.

Closing to suicide range, 20mm corkscrew smoke tracers blasted down the side of the Russian, which burst into fire and immediately pitched into the ground. "One, good shot!" from Hans, as Katze punched up the ground observers to call for Ludwig's position. He was still engaged, and the ground controller vectored Hans and Katze toward them.

"One, you are right on top of them, they are in the clouds in front of you!"

She strained to see, but saw nothing. Suddenly, a flash of light at the corner of her eye. "Katze, check your three o'clock!" Ludwig on the job. She pulled the Gustav into a turn-and saw the last Russian, on the deck and heading east, trailing thin white smoke. He was hurt; Ludwig hadn't needed help after all. Katze nosed in behind him, carefully. The Russian had no idea until red and blue tracer lanced in, ripping off the P-39's wing at the root, sending it spinning into the ground.

"That's for you, Wolfgang."

author: Cat

Mail Run

The only Alarcon in the Soviet Air Force was cold. He had been cold for many months. In the darkness outside of the Yak snow was blowing and the wind pushed against the tail, moving the Yak ever so slowly clockwise. He closed the canopy and settled into the seat, adjusting straps and checking maps, checking to see if he had forgotten anything. This was ritual, he, as usual had not slept well and that sleep which did come held nightmare. He reached inside his tunic and touched the letter. Everything routine, the cold, his persistent headache, the vague pain in his ears from the changes in altitude, the ache of the wisdom tooth on the lower right of his jaw, the feeling that he should have urinated one more time after the briefing, everything normal. It was quieter inside the cockpit with the canopy closed and he was isolated with his dark thoughts. He was not yet comfortable in the Yak. He missed the familiarity that he had had with the Lagg 3, the feeling of oneness with the simple and honest design. He did not miss the Mig at all. He had been able to fly the Lagg to the edge of its limits and had had some success. To be sure, the Yak was very much faster and had greater fire power and maneuverability but he did not feel at home there. The smells were strange and alien, an odd mixture of sweat, oil, petrol, gunpowder, glycol and fear. He worked the stick and checked the ailerons on each wing and craned his head around to do the same for the elevator and rudder. Satisfied, he switched on the radio, tuned the frequency and sat back to wait. He thought of home.

In his village in the north of Spain he was not the only Alarcon. There were, in fact, twenty seven Alarcons, most of whom toiled, or had, in the vineyards owned by the patron. There were Guillermo Alarcon and Maria Alarcon, his parents, and Santiago Alarcon and Father Ismael and Isadora, Pablo, Manuel and many others. Alarcons all of them. He had been, however, the only Francisco Maria Agirra Alarcon in the village. He wondered how many Alarcons were still there.

The radio crackled and he heard the distinct and jovial voice of Kapitan Peter Kropotkin “Moggy”. “We are ready to fly, Starshiy Leitenant Virgin Mary, follow my lead.” Moggy had not always been Moggy. At the time when he had taught Francisco to fly the Polikarpov I 15 Chato for the Republican Army he had called himself Gato but some of the Irish volunteers had changed that to Moggy and it had stuck. Francisco’s nickname was given to him when he had finally reached Russia and volunteered. Francisco had always been slight of build and even the imposing moustache he had grown could not change the soft features of his face. He did not mind the nickname. He had had none in Spain save that Moggy called all the trainees his “Virgins”.

It would be a bit of a tricky takeoff in such a cross wind but he would do it by the book the way Moggy had taught him and the way Moggy always flew. He hoped that he would not make the mistake that one of the student pilots had made years ago in Spain. He had failed to keep the level and had hooked the tip of the Chato’s lower wing. The students had watched the sickening slow motion of the biplane progressing from wingtip to nose to wingtip to tail before scattering in fire.

Francisco, “The Virgin Mary” adjusted the prop pitch and set the brakes firmly. It was not long before he heard the whir of Moggy’s engine and the muffled sound of the exhaust. He set the throttle, levered the ignition and listened to the whine of his own motor before it caught, coughed and, amid a swirl of exhaust smoke, settled into a rough and noisy fast tick over. A little left rudder aligned the Yak and he eased the brakes to let it creep forward, straightening the tail wheel which he then locked.

The engine smoothed as it grew warm and Virgin Mary lowered the flaps to the takeoff position, watching their whirring extension on each wing to be sure (more habit and wishful thinking than effective since he could not really see them). He disliked the feeling he always had when taking off, not quite of the earth but not yet of the sky. After he heard the roar of Moggy’s plane he counted slowly ten seconds and increased the throttle and released the brakes. As the Yak lumbered over the snow he shifted his gaze constantly left and right to gauge the course between the bonfires, he could not discern the edge of the strip through the snow. More left rudder was needed as the Yak increased speed, veering gently left and right through the wind. The Yak rattled and creaked over the snow and the roar of the engine and rumbling of the wheels increased to deafening. One hundred sixty kph seemed to take an eternity to reach and Rosinante (as he called the Yak) seemed to hover there for too long. Virgin Mary thought of inducing emergency power to kick the Yak faster but it reached one eighty soon enough and he gently but firmly pulled the yoke back. The Yak rose then bounced and bounced again before the earth let go. Once airborne the plane seemed to wallow a bit (though not as badly as the Mig had loved to do) and Virgin Mary began an incremental ascent designed to increase airspeed quickly. A stall at such a low altitude would be a very brief experience.

The climb to the assigned 2000 meter altitude was routine, the only trouble being that he had a great deal of trouble keeping Moggy in sight. The visibility was terrible; such a place where one could not tell earth from sky and must guess from the instruments what was happening. Most of this thinking was, by now, automatic and could not occupy all of his thoughts and he thought again of Spain. He thought of the warmth and clear sky and the sweet tangy taste of the local red wine (he was finally becoming accustomed to the bite of the vodka, perhaps too much so).

The civil war in Spain had not really been Moggy’s fight, but then, neither was it directly the fight of the thousands of other volunteers from all over the globe which had come to oppose the fascist insurgents. Virgin Mary thought often that, with Moggy, the rightness of the cause outweighed even the love of flying. Moggy had told him of events which were happening in the world far beyond the Virgin Mary’s little village but, however large these events were, the Virgin Mary had listened much more attentively to Moggy’s advise and instruction about flying. Moggy had been the best flyer in the esquadrilla and had taught the art of maneuvering the nimble Chato in such a way that the speed of the Me 109s and Macchis would work against them. He had been successful enough that at least three pilots of the Legion Condor never would return to the Fatherland. He was much admired for his quick and sure tactics and the precision which would frustrate those who would try to follow him. El Gato, the cat, the name had suited him until the Irish had changed it to one more congenial (but just as deadly).

“Twelve o’clock level, 1500 meters” was Moggy’s voice over the radio, “you take one on right”. The Virgin Mary squinted through the blur of snow and could barely make out the small dot with wings. He increased the throttle to full and heard the satisfying response of Rosinante and the airspeed climbed from the 320 cruise quickly to 400. He patted the letter in his tunic, tugged at his gloves, armed his weapons and adjusted his grip on the yoke to one of gentile surety. The nose of Rosinante was centered dead on the nose of the bandit, perhaps 700 meters between them. Virgin Mary disliked head on shots (though Moggy relished in them), head on was deadly quick, bravery and accuracy would determine the victor. Which will it be, he thought, the toro or the toreador? “Is Storch” said Moggy. “Three”. Patiently, Virgin Mary centered the crosshairs on the growing dot. Two hundred meters, one hundred, closer, a light touch on the trigger and a brief deafening burst of machine gun and canon shattered the little planes starboard wing at the root above the cabin. Almost simultaneously, Virgin Mary pulled the yoke toward him and kicked the right rudder. Rosinante obeyed immediately and rose over the pitiful Storch as it began a clockwise death spiral. Left rudder and hard bank to port, hard back on the yoke, right rudder to maintain altitude, Rosinante shuddering at the force of the maneuver. “Got him, he flames, that make us two. Let’s get other”. The Virgin Mary strained to find the remaining Storch . Through the snow and cloud he could make out only the flare of light that the burning Storch was showing. He estimated a small interval to the right and began aiming the Yak at this imaginary place. As he straightened from the turn he found the Storch and realized that he had fallen below the level and pulled up slightly, fixated on the tiny target. One quick pass. Then it would all be over. Make it fast so that the gunner in the rear could not range him. Rosinante gently rose and Virgin Mary calculated the firing solution. Four hundred meters away the rear gunner desperately opened fire. The tracers from the little gun arced over Virgin Mary’s head and he thanked the stars for the gunners poor accuracy. Suddenly the roar of the Yak’s engine seem to double and, almost too late, he saw the white underbelly of Moggy’s Yak fill his canopy. Virgin Mary pressed the yoke forward then back slightly to separate the two planes. The flash and sound of Moggy’s guns slammed his senses and he watched the trail of the tracers and a flash from the starboard wing of the Storch. After this brief burst, Moggy peeled away to port and Virgin Mary lifted Rosinante’s nose so that the crosshairs centered again on the target. At two hundred meters he squeezed the trigger in a brief burst and saw that his aim was level but a bit left, there was a small flash on the port wing of the Storch and bits of silhouetted debris. He gently pushed right rudder and swung the crosshairs, another short burst, a flash on the starboard wing, too much. He felt/heard the thud of the rounds from the Storch’s gun and he rolled to starboard in a long flat circle which would shortly put him on the enemy’s tail again. As he strained to find it in the darkness, he saw the flashes of Moggy’s guns and the longer answering flash from the Storch. Moggy peeled left again for another pass. “What it take to kill you? Wooden stake in heart?” he yelled over the radio to no one. As Virgin Mary closed again he noted that the port landing gear was missing and that the little plane was trailing vapor. He lined up again and fired a quick burst, when he regained his vision after the flash he was dismayed that the burst had done little. Closer, closer than one hundred meters and a long burst. At the same time, the Storch’s gunner opened up and he felt the slugs hit Rosinante, a fearful number of them. At a distance which was much closer than he cared for, he stopped firing, shoved the yoke forward and dove under the Storch so as not to expose Rosinante at that too close range. He began a lazy upward circle to port. About half way around he saw a long flash of tracers from Moggy’s guns and again the answer from the Storch. Suddenly the smaller plane became a bright fireball which illuminated the clouds nearby. “*******! Better than stake in heart! You go to Hell now!” was Moggy’s triumphant cry.

A bit later, back on course and at cruise, Virgin Mary was calm but still frustrated. He finally realized that a bundle of tubes and cloth does not have that many vital parts. He had only made some small holes. “You trailing something.” Moggy said. “Stay level”. As Virgin Mary watched, Moggy slowly disappeared under Rosinante from port to starboard. “Maybe fuel, maybe oil, maybe water. Gauges?” Virgin Mary scanned the instruments. “Everything been ok. Is normal”. “Probably fuel then, watch.”

The rendezvous with the Sturmoviks went well. The weather had cleared slightly and the snow had stopped. Stars could be seen in the scant patches of clear sky. After escorting them to their targets, Virgin Mary listened to the Sturmovik pilots exulting in their victories over their ground targets. He and Moggy circled and watched the display of streaming rockets and brilliant explosions. It seemed unreal, or perhaps too real, like a nightmare which terrifies. But, in its own way, it was beautiful.

The fuel gauge showed more movement than was normal. Time to go home. The Sturmoviks would follow soon. More and more of them were reporting that they had fired all rockets. “Ninety degrees and 25.” Was Moggy’s radioed instruction to Virgin Mary and the Sturmoviks. “We will slow for you.”

At cruise and on the return Virgin Mary worried over the fuel gauge which, even though declining faster than normal, would probably be enough that he would not have to worry about an emergency landing. Instead he fretted about the Storch. He regretted that it had not been a Messerschmitt 109.

That part of the Virgin Mary which was not involved in scanning the gauges, checking the sky and remaining on Moggy’s six drifted from the frigid reality of the present back to a warm and sunny April Monday in his Vizcaya village. It had been a market day and more. On that Monday he had been married three days to Ramona Eskarel who had become not only his best friend from childhood but was now forever to be his wife. He had watched her grow into the beauty of the village by increments from Monday to Monday whenever he would deliver the red wine to market and pickup wooden casks or vegetables for the patron. It was a splendid and happy day. Until the afternoon.

At first there was a distant drone of engines, not unusual in those days of he civil war but, as the drone grew louder there was a terrific explosion from the center of the village. He remembered the unreal sound of the screams that the children and women and men made as they ran past him. The church bells rang franticly. More sounds of engines, more (as he found out later) He 111s, more explosions. He ran with Ramona to her fathers shelter, crude as it was, beside the house. They spent two hours packed tightly with both family and strangers. There air was scarcely breathable it was so filled with dust. Smoke drifted in, choking thick smoke from the many fires set in the village. If they could not stay in the shelter they could try to run to the oak woods of the hills. Outside, they saw that the bombers were not dropping explosives anymore, but they dropped things that burst in flames and ignited everything the flames touched. They ran out of the village through a nightmare of brick and beam, smoke and dust and, scattered about, an arm or leg or torso or someone’s head in pools of blood. After a surreal slow motion of horror they reached the road away from the village. It was jammed with some of the thousands that had come for market from miles around. Everyone running from the fires behind them.

A new sound approached, a different engine sound with a persistent high whine intermixed with the roar. Single engine fighters were strafing the road. They were sleek and evil looking, purposefully ugly and horridly beautiful at once. Sometimes they would come in single file, other times they were abreast as though they were experimenting to find the most efficient way to kill. The air was filled with evil whistling sounds and screams and pink sprays of blood. With strength he did not know he possessed, Francisco picked up Ramona and ran. He ran over the bodies of the fallen and away from the village. Eventually, he was merely stumbling but he continued. He did not stop until he saw Father Ismael. Father Ismael lifted the bloody thing that had been Ramona from his arms.

“Hello guys, good to see you again.” This was from the radio and the Sturmoviks below. Moggy and Virgin Mary drifted back above the column of Sturmoviks and matched their speed. The Sturmoviks slid slowly by 1500 meters below them.

It was not very long after that day, and after the many funerals, and the mourning that Moggy was teaching him to fly with the esquadrilla. He was a very good student. He had always been quick to learn and, thanks to Father Ismael, he was one of the few young men in his village who could read. So he had read. He had had no life-long yearning to fly. He had very rarely even seen an aeroplane. But the corrida of the Messerschmitt was in the sky, so there he would be also. His training was barely finished when the war was lost. He and Moggy retreated, with thousands of other refugees, civilian and army, north across the Pyrenees and the border to France to avoid the inevitable slaughter that the fascists would require. They suffered for long months in a French concentration camp and more months after the Vichy had been placed in power by the conquering Germans. They naturally became closer friends and extreme confidants. Moggy taught Francisco some basic Russian (which sounded to Francisco like broken glass) and Francisco taught Moggy a bit more of Spanish (which Moggy butchered with gusto). Eventually they escaped the Vichy work camp (they had been building incredibly poor armaments from excellent designs) and had made their way to Russia. The eastern war had begun two years ago. That was okay with Virgin Mary.

“Junkers at one o’clock level, 109s eleven at 15, Attack the transports.” One of the Sturmoviks ahead and below sounded over the radio. “Wake up Mary, we have work” the last from Moggy. Virgin Mary reached into his tunic and touched again the letter.

Throttles to maximum they dropped straight east to 1000 meters, they did not bother veering slightly left to eleven, the 109s would no longer be there but after the Sturmoviks. Brilliant plumes of fire fell from the sky. The excited cries of the Sturmovik pilots indicated that the Junkers had been caught on approach and were easy kills. Others were strafing sitting ducks on the snow and scoring. Fires lit the night. Crisscrossing tracers from the German AA added to the madness.

“Clear my six, anybody, I am two kilometers west of aerodrome at 5 heading 90”. Not to far, Virgin Mary eased the throttle slightly and leveled a bit as Moggy dove toward the melee. In Short order he saw Moggy’s tracers lace toward a distant silhouette and also another silhouette curve sharply onto to Moggy’s tail. Virgin Mary slapped the throttle full, nosed over and then leveled off 400 meters behind the attacker. He wanted to be close and sure. “******* on your six, Moggy!” he radioed just as the 109 in front of Moggy burst into flame. The 109 in front of Virgin Mary let loose a long burst. Small explosions appeared around Moggy. Virgin Mary closed to 200 meters, loosed a long burst into the Messerschmitt and was gratified to see explosions from the canon shells. The 109 was trying to line up on the wildly gyrating Moggy and the changing angles made for increasingly difficult deflection shots from Virgin Mary. Suddenly Moggy slowed and straightened as if finished and the 109 followed suit to get a perfect shot. Virgin Mary did the same and fired a long burst, mostly wild mostly to distract the 109 before he could fire. One shell caught the port oil cooler or radiator which began leaving a thin trail of smoke. Moggy arced to the left and accelerated in a decreasing spiral turn. As the 109 turned to follow he appeared ripe for a perfect deflection shot but, as Virgin Mary squeezed the trigger, only the machine gun responded. Then it too stopped. Virgin Mary cursed the ammunition that he had wasted on the Storch. The German could turn tighter than Moggy, perhaps because of a lower speed or better trim and he would soon be inside and have his own set up deflection. Virgin Mary hit full throttle and emergency power, He was less than sixty meters behind the 109 and closing fast. He arced inside and passed over and slightly ahead of the 109 just as its pilot fired, wildly as he increased the radius of the arc to avoid collision with the Yak. Virgin Mary pressed the other pilot farther out and wound up in front of him, very close but slightly off line. This was a situation which would not last, however as his speed was greater and he would be a prime target soon. He rolled right into a steep, sweeping arc so that he could retain as much speed as possible and gain some distance. The German followed him, as Virgin Mary was the far easier target solution for him. Virgin Mary realized that he could not outrun the German as soon as he felt the thud and heard the whiz of rounds and saw the tracers fly by very close. At an altitude of 350 meters he rolled and kicked the rudder left then right. The 109 stopped firing but was closing. Short bursts traced past and into his port wing and Virgin Mary pulled the yoke sharply back just as the Yak rolled right side up. The response was mushy at best but he was climbing vertically and losing a great deal of speed. He cut the emergency power and closed the throttle, moved the flap lever to combat and kicked the rudder hard right. He did not execute the perfect 180 degree turn just at stall but instead more or less fell sideways with the nose coming around slowly down. He shoved the throttle to full and heard the engine gain rpm quickly. The German shot by in a more conventional and sane upward arc. At about 140 kph he began to feel lift in the wings and he hoped that 600 meters was enough to pull up with his damaged elevator. It was, barely. Level and low he raised the flaps, hit emergency power again and let Rosinante speed him safely away in a direction opposite that of the German. Eventually he caught up with Moggy and settled on his six.

Virgin Mary fretted. He had checked the map constantly against what little he could see in the dimness. As far as he could tell they were on course, He was above and slightly behind Moggy but could not, with the damaged elevator, duplicate the perfect trim that Moggy had (always) achieved and he was constantly correcting. The fuel gauge he checked often, it indicated low but he would make it. His compass was out but, with Moggy ahead, he was not concerned. The weather had cleared enough that moonlight was reflecting from the snow. He needed to smoke.

What worried him most was that Moggy had not answered his many calls. But everything must be alright. Just that the radio was out, not a rare thing to happen. At the proper waypoint Moggy cut the throttle and began the slow descent to approach the field. Virgin Mary requested permission to land for both of them and informed the tower (such as it was) that Moggy had a radio problem and would be first in. This was confirmed and Virgin Mary began to relax. That is as much as he could relax on approach, he disliked landing even more than he disliked taking off. Moggy kidded him constantly about this fear of the hard earth. He could see the bonfires outlining the strip off to the left. They would be turning soon to the north then west again to line up with the snowy strip. Moggy turned smartly to port and began a slightly steeper descent and Virgin Mary followed. At two hundred meters altitude and at the waypoint where they should turn toward the strip and settle in, Moggy flew straight instead. Virgin Mary watched as the plane slowly descended to the snow, slid for a time, then slewed to the right and stopped. He radioed the position and turned toward the strip, reducing the throttle and lowering the flaps as he did so. As he touched down he saw the ambulance racing to the north east.

Virgin Mary sat heavily on the edge of the wooden chair and leaned his elbows on the small table. He lit a candle and took the letter from his tunic, placing it in the candle’s light against a small statue. He had stirred the fire in the small iron stove and its heat slowly worked into the room. With trembling hands he carefully loaded his pipe and lit it, poured a small glass full of vodka and gulped it. He poured another, sipped at it and waited. He had been ordered out of the infirmary and still had not seen Moggy. All he had been told was that Moggy was “..being taken care of”. From somewhere beyond the thin walls of his quarters he heard someone crank the handle of a record player and then he heard the scratchy low sound of a mournful song. He had heard the voice before, a woman’s, sad but accepting. He did not know the name of it or where he heard it or whether it was French, English or even German. He did not know and could not hear it well enough to decide if there were violins or muted horns. He liked it even though it was so opposite the strong and uplifting lyrics of the women’s songs that Ramona used to sing at the collective. He sipped more of the vodka and tilted his head so that it would pool around his aching tooth. Then swallowed more. His hands had stopped their trembling. He relit his pipe and stared at the candle flame. In the flicker of it seemed to dance so many images, so many detached memories. Beyond the walls the song began again, someone else thinking, remembering. He did not know how long he had been sitting there. He had been pulled back from within himself by the whir and pop of a small engine come to life, then more. The Night Witches, he thought. He raised a glass of the vodka, “Send them to hell” he saluted them and drank. Sometime later the Major appeared. He touched Francisco on the shoulder and shook his head “no” to the unasked question. “Too much bleeding, most of jaw and some fingers gone. Too much loss.” He said. Francisco stared mutely as the Major filled two glasses from the bottle he carried. “Saluda”, he said. “Zero six hundred you lead Yaks to keep Sturmoviks safe?” Francisco nodded. After the major had gone he saw the bars of a Kapitan on the corner of the table, He noticed that one of them was red stained. He pinned them to his tunic. After a time he took a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote.

“Dear Moggy”, he began, “Today they named you a Hero of the Soviet Union.....”.

Sometime later he straightened up. He folded the letter and placed it inside the envelope with the one he had written to his wife. Perhaps he would deliver both of them this day. The address was of no matter, there was no longer a house at that address in Guernica.

He placed the envelope inside his tunic and left for the briefing.

author: Corvid