Night of the Witch

Dedicated to Annie, my friend and pilot extraordinaire.

This story is based on real events and inspired by Tamara Pamyatnikh of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment of the Soviet Air Forces, a highly decorated female unit of pilots who dropped over 23,000 tons of bombs on invading Nazis and flew over 30,000 missions in four years.

Tamara gazed out at moonlit hills as the wind swept the grasses away and urged her onward with it. She followed where it wandered among the hills. Though it was the cold dead of night, Tamara was not afraid. Night had always been her domain.

The moon cast the shadows of clouds to the earth, darkening her steps as if she were waking spirits from shallow graves as she walked. Tamara sighed as she reached the top of the hill and sat down to rest. Her hip was complaining, as it did more and more these days.

She lay back in the grass and watched the cloudy skies. The wind blew cold on her skin on its way to the edge of the field, where it moved through the branches of the pine trees with the softest breath. Like the quiet whoosh of a witch's broom.

Something cold landed on her cheek, and within moments, the sky was full of snowflakes.

Tamara smiled, and remembered.

***

Tamara flew low over Kursk in her Polikarpov Po-2 biplane, a glorified crop duster. The Russians had nicknamed it kerosinka, or "kerosene lantern," due to its plywood and canvas design that made it easy to light on fire, not exactly ideal when the enemy shot burning tracer bullets at you. Which was why Tamara stalled her engine when making bombing runs, gliding over her target with only the whistle of the wind to give her away.

The Nazis called them Nachthexen, or "Night Witches." They came with the darkness, dropping bombs and shooting down German planes. They came with the wind, silent and sudden. So hated and feared were they that any pilot who downed one was awarded an Iron Cross.

Tonight though, Tamara and her wingwoman Raisa had been assigned to guard a railway station near Kursk where troops and ammunition had been gathered in anticipation of a German offensive. The wind whipped the snow into her face through the open cockpit, but she and Raisa patrolled anyway, scouring the night skies for enemy aircraft.

Lieutenant Petrochenkova-Neminushaya's voice came over the radio. "German reconnaissance aircraft, 10 o'clock, eight miles. Fly heading 300. You have permission to engage."

"Roger," came Raisa's voice over the radio. "Heading 300, engaging aircraft." She and Tamara adjusted their heading and soon neared the area Valentina had indicated. But they didn't find a German reconnaissance aircraft. Instead, they found forty-two German bombers headed for Kursk.

Flares held aloft by parachutes whirled down through the driving snow, lighting the area the Germans were preparing to bomb. Surely they assumed no Soviet fighters would be out on a night like tonight. It was a good plan, but they didn't know there were Witches about.

Tamara pulled her Po-2 into a steep climb, swiftly gaining altitude. Raisa radioed for reinforcements, but they would not get there in time. Tamara and Raisa dove at the bombers, firing at the leaders, just darker shadows in the night until their bullets lit them up.

The formation split as the lead planes exploded and dropped, and Tamara, her little Po-2 far slower but far more maneuverable than the fast German bombers, turned sharply as they zoomed past, the roar of engines muffled by the snow. She and Raisa came at them again, hoping to trick them into thinking there were more than just the two of them.

Tamara shot into the darkness as the Germans returned fire. One shadow broke from the rest and fell away, spiraling out of control. Above her, a stream of bullets from Raisa took out another bomber, sending it hurtling like a giant smoking snowflake to crash to the ground.