Yelena argued. “It’s just hazing. Everyone coming new to the front is in for some hazing.”
“Especially if you’re us,” the argument shot back. “Comrade Stalin’s pet project—”
“—because we’re girls—”
“Well, don’t show them any reaction,” Yelena said as they fell into march exiting the airfield. “Heads high, ladies.”
Nina kept her eyes narrowed and her chin lifted as they walked the gauntlet of smirking men in flight overalls. Some wag from the back called out, “What’s the matter, girlies, can’t you tell stars from swastikas when you see ’em on a wing?” Nina broke marching rhythm to throw him an obscene gesture.
“Enough,” Major Raskova barked, all-seeing as ever. “You’ll be based out of Trud Gorniaka, ladies, find your billets. Don’t get comfortable. With the front so unstable we could be moving any day or any hour—”
“The Germans are close here,” Dusia Nosal proclaimed—a girl with a taut, thin face, probably the best flier in the 588th besides Yelena. She’d lost her newborn baby in a German bombing raid at the beginning of the war. “You can almost smell the sauerkraut. If we don’t get orders within the week . . .”
But the commander of the 218th who came for the following day’s inspection had barely a glance for the regiment. “He called us what?” Nina hissed.
“‘I’ve received one hundred and twelve little princesses, just what am I supposed to do with them?’” Dusia mimicked. “He was on the telephone to General Vershinin, or so I heard.”
“He wouldn’t say that to Raskova’s face!”
But Raskova had flown back to Engels, and the 588th received their orders from Major Yevdokia Bershanskaia now. “Two weeks of additional training,” Bershanskaia said over their groans. She had none of Raskova’s blue-eyed glamour, but she was steady, quiet, all brisk maternal efficiency like a hen herding chicks, no patience for stragglers or whiners. She’d wanted to fly fighters, Nina knew, but now she was commander of the 588th, and if she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “You’re all to be individually flight-tested by a male pilot.”
“What do they think we’ve been doing all that time in Engels?” Nina demanded. “Buffing our nails? We can’t be trusted until one of the men signs off that we know which end of the stick to hold?”
“Ninochka,” Yelena said with a sigh, “shut up.”
Nina, still smoldering, climbed stonily into her U-2 the following morning with a freckle-faced pilot who looked about twelve and threw her plane around the sky so violently that her inspector nearly threw up. “Pass,” he said, green-faced. Yelena’s examiner was a tall handsome Leningrader with a lazy smile, and Nina hated him on sight. “They make damned pretty pilots in Moscow,” he said, laughing at Yelena’s blush. “Virgin ears, dousha? Better toughen up, or you won’t last a fucking minute against the Krauts—” He kept stringing profanities, clearly enjoying Yelena’s bright red cheeks, and when he finally let her climb into the cockpit, Nina hailed him from the side of the runway.
“What is it, little one?” he asked, loping up with a disbelieving glance for Nina’s head, which didn’t even reach his shoulder. “Are you even tall enough to see out of the cockpit?”
He yelped then, feeling the keen edge of a stropped Siberian razor pressing against the inside of his thigh. Nina smiled, angling her body so no one would see the blade between her fingers. Yelena waved from the U-2, clearly wondering what the delay was.
“My pilot,” Nina said sweetly, “doesn’t care for your fucking language, you bonehead Leningrad mule. Keep your mouth clean around her, or I will slice off your balls and cram them up your fucking nose.”
“Women in the air,” he breathed. “World’s gone crazy, giving planes to you bitches.”
“Bitches like my pilot fly better than you will ever fly in your whole goddamned life.” Nina gave another sweet smile. “So take her up there for a loop and keep your fucking language nice, and I won’t jam a propeller up your shit-factory and crank until your asshole flaps like your mouth.”
“He said I’m a skilled pilot and a credit to the Fourth Air Army,” Yelena reported afterward.
“Did he, now?” Nina said placidly.
The Fritzes were grinding toward Stalingrad, reportedly advanced into the curve of the Don River, before the 588th received their orders. “First combat mission to be flown by three planes only.” Bershanskaia’s hand made its signature chop before a single groan went up. “Myself and both squadron commanders. Regard it as an exploratory sortie, girls.”
“Let’s not grudge her,” Yelena said. “For