Diving Shadow
Submitted for the TWC Writing Competition, little short story I made.
Inspired by a true story.
Eastern Front, September 1941
“Madness!”
“It is.”
“Suicide!”
“That too.” The air force commander smiled thinly in the corner of his mouth as the junior officer shook his head in obvious disbelief. “But somebody needs to do it.”
The junior officer threw a surprised look. “But who? No one will do it voluntarily.”
“One of the senior officers will. I hope.” The commander glanced at his wristwatch. “Come, it is time, they are waiting in the tent for us.”
The junior officer adjusted the fedora and drew it closer to the edge of his forehead to counter the baking heat of the September day. Still shaking his head in disbelief, he followed the base commander through the barren land of the military airfield, silent and hot as the planes stood idle on the runways in the burning glow of the sun. At the outer edge of the large white camp tent the two men ducked their heads and entered through the textile cloth that acted as an entrance and warded off any mosquitoes. Inside the tent several senior officers sat on small wooden chairs scattered throughout, pockets of junior lieutenants and other lower ranked men chatting up each other in various corners. Without much formality the commander gave a quick salute and headed for the rectangular table in the middle of the tent cluttered with expanded maps of the surrounding areas.
A single large map was still not enough to accommodate the needs of the mission over the Odessa but the commander hoped for a quick agreement as he set his eyes on the officers and the rest of the ranked men gathered around him. His hopes were quickly dashed when the seniors and juniors brought up their opinions but neither of them reached a consensus, raising more questions than answers and drawing a lengthy chorus of disappointment from the lieutenants who stood expectant around the table. Sweating, the commander placed his hat on the table, brushing his ever thinning hair with the palm of his hand.
He sighed. The plan, just as the junior officer suggested, was madness. The one who had to carry out the mission had to be alone and without any defence. But it was a strict and direct order from the high command that he could not ignore, and someone had to do it. He knew that he could not risk any senior officers, but at the same time he knew that neither of them would do it either. Perhaps some of the junior pilots would do it but even they would realise it would be virtual suicide.
“Call the lieutenants and sergeants who are at the base.”
The junior officer stood up. “All of them, Sir?”
“Bring just a few of them, those who roam around.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Seven men entered the tent after fifteen minutes under the junior officer's guidance, all of them wearing their camp uniforms with their shirts unbuttoned and sweating profusely from the constant exposure to the sun. To the commander's eye, neither of them seemed remarkable, but then again he did not know all of their records by heart either. With a quick swish of his hand he invited them closer to the table, flashing a wide grin.
“Sergeants, lieutenants, come forwards, I have called you to present our next mission!”
Despite his high hopes, only the senior officers raised their brows in doubt but nothing more. Even more surprising to him was the silence he received from the lower ranks after he finished his glowing exposure. Through the crowd only one of them wavered whether to say something but kept his silence until the last details were fleshed out on the map. Gathering up his courage, he gently pushed his comrades aside and stepped forwards, only an arm's length away from the commander and his senior officers who frowned at his sudden apparition. His wiry frame and his serene figure made the commander raise his eyebrow in doubt and drew more than a couple of surprised glances from the senior officers who did not expect a man of such lower ranking to step forwards.
“Commander, I will do it.”
The commander gawked at him. “You, Grayhair? You're a sergeant, and barely made!”
“Commander, no officer wants to do it. I volunteer for it.”
“You are only a sergeant, Grayhair,” replied the commander.
“I am the only one who stepped forward to do it. I volunteer for the mission.”
The senior officers kept silent. “Are you sure?” asked the commander.
“Yes.”
The commander straightened his posture and glanced at his officers who still kept their silence. “Very well, the mission is granted to you. Permission to fly in one hour.”
Smiling and with his head bowed, the sergeant exited the commander's tent and walked towards the parked planes with a mixture of excitement and regret that he volunteered, but he knew he could not back down now. His heavy leather boots hampered his movement between the high grass and the patches of weeds beside the cleared runway, tripping him occasionally as he tried to advance towards the silent biplane awaiting him. Greyhair breathed in. He took a quick glance at the clear blue skies, squinting his eyes in the distance. Towards the north east small patches of clouds bundled up together but he paid them no particular attention since he knew they would not be the danger he would have to face.
He switched his gaze from the clouds towards the IAR-39 biplane ahead of him that stood inert on the side of the runway, two mechanics tending to the intricacies of the radial engine on bothsides of the opened canvas fuselage. Greyhair approached the two boys, no more than sixteen years of age each, soiled in oil and dust as they came to him with grins extended all over to their large ears. They dropped the tools on the ground, cleaned their hands on their dirty shirts and saluted in military fashion. Greyhair replied with the same military salute.
“Is it in perfect order?”
“Yes Sir, all we need is to fuel it and you can go,” replied one of the boys, a short and thin teenager with his smile wider than his figure.
Greyhair smiled. “Good. Do that, and thank you.”
Both boys broke off towards the supply tent in a run, giving way for a wiry young man who approached the biplane, hesitant and apprehensive. Greyhair heard him rustle the weeds behind and turned his head back, throwing a quick smile and a nod to the aft gunner who only smiled thinly in reply. The man, barely in his twenties and with a swath of hair that even he did not know how it was allowed in the military, walked over to the biplane and patted the canvas covering of the fuselage right where the multicoloured circle of the Royal Air Force stood imprinted. He turned towards the pilot, his grey eyes betraying a mixture of fear and curiosity.
“Ready?”
The gunner shook his head. “No, not really. We are only two?”
Greyhair nodded. “Yes, only two.”
“I would call this suicide but for the sake of our spirits, I will not. Do you realise that?”
Greyhair nodded again. “Yes, I do.”
“We will be alone, there is not enough ammunition in the aft gun, we will be against a whole battery of anti aircraft defences and above all, if we meet enemy aircraft, we don't even have the speed to run away from them. I won't even mention the fact that we are sure targets if they catch us.”
“I know.” Greyhair paused for effect. “Get in the plane. Do you want me to help you?”
For a moment the gunner hesitated but shook his head eventually. “No need, I can enter myself.”
Still hesitant, the gunner entered the sleek aircraft and took his place in the aft beside the rear wing just as a group of senior mechanics made the final checks before the scheduled takeoff. The wristwatch on the gunner's hand indicated almost two o'clock at midday when Greyhair gave his final salutes to the mechanics who started the radial engines, the huff and puff of the starter turning to a rhythmic beat that echoed throughout the airfield. Greyhair inserted himself inside the pilot seat and gave a final check of all the instruments, correct, neutral and indicating normal values. The pilot exhaled deeply.
He had the mission in mind. On paper it was easy, in reality it would be totally different.
“Are you set?”
“Yes,” resounded the voice of the gunner behind him.
Applying enough throttle to the engine, the simple blade rotated at an even faster speed, dragging the biplane gently over to the edge of the runway. With no other planes in sight and given the clear from the base, the pilot opened the throttle completely and let the aircraft race over the runway, taking off to the blue skies with only a couple of meters to spare. The radial engine roar purred like music to his ears as he adjusted the plane on course with the map in his lap outlining the instructions of the mission in clear markings.
“Four runs.”
At the top edge of the map a quick scribble indicated the recommended altitude but he knew that was too high. He had to go lower, even if it meant he was to be in the line of fire of the anti-aircraft batteries placed in concentric nests all around the outer edges of the city. From more than four thousand metres up in the sky he knew the photographs he needed to make would not be clear enough for the infantrymen to guide themselves with. He had to go closer. Greyhair folded the map and tucked it back into the pocket of his airman's jacket.
No events occurred for the next thirty five minutes as the plane glided towards the sea port, guiding himself using the railways, huge green fields and small villages that passed underneath the fuselage. To his right the vast expanse of the sea smiled at him with the sun glinting on the smooth surface. Greyhair contemplated at it for a split second but he realised he had no emotions. He only wished for the port city to expand itself faster underneath his plane so he could complete his mission. When the first contours of the city appeared at the horizon, he unfastened his seatbelts and glanced behind him, grabbing the edge of the gunner's coat with his fingertips.
“Get in the observer's spot!” yelled the pilot.
The gunner nodded and slowly got out of his aft position and took the place of the observer, locking the belts into their position.
“The moment I tell you to, click the system so the lens will focus and photograph the defences of the city. There will be four runs that we need to do, and we will not leave until we get four photographs of the defences. Understood?”
“Yes,” yelled the gunner over the noise of the engine.
The pilot held his hand in understanding and yanked the biplane downwards towards an altitude of two thousand metres, bringing the plane to a neutral level. He switched the engine lever off a moment later, a sudden, unusual silence spreading over the whole cockpit. Greyhair yanked the stick downwards again to dive the shadow of a plane, gently mastering the side ailerons to level the plane again with increased speed. Shifting his position in the seat, he flexed his leg muscles and rose slowly to glance over the side of the plane at the city beneath him.
At the edge of the Black Sea, a small sprawling city expanded on the beaches, trenches and fortified dug outs visible from the air with dozens of anti aircraft nests scattered all around. Blocks of flats stood clustered on the outskirts of the city where the defences were installed and fortified all over again on three separate lines, the soldiers waiting in the trenches the advance of the rampaging armies. Just as he had imagined them to be, the city's defences were lined with bunkers, anti aircraft defences, machinegun nests, artillery pieces and many kilometres of trenches and barbed wire. Greyhair spotted more than a dozen anti aircraft batteries through his path but he only hoped they would mistake him.
Readying the plane, he yanked the stick forwards and dived the nose of the plane slowly on it's first run. The increased speed flew him over the first line of defences when he yelled at the gunner who clicked on the lens and captured the first photograph of the defences. With enough speed still on the instruments, the pilot turned the plane around in a U shape and let it dive even lower, bellowing once more to the gunner who followed his orders in perfect fashion. Holding his breath at the incredible luck, the pilot turned the stick to return for a third time over the city's defences when the tracer bullet wheezed by the edge of his right wing.
The Soviet batteries realised the threat.
Spooling up the engine, Greyhair dived the plane even lower to allow the gunner to shoot a third photograph of the Odessa defences when the first shots of the anti aircraft batteries closed in on the wings. Most bullets missed wildly but he knew very well it would not take much time before the engineers manning the defences would adjust their aim accordingly. With the engine now at minimum power, the aircraft turned sideways one last time just as the large bullet shot through the small rear wing, ripping the canvas apart. Shooting a glance at the rear, Greyhair nodded to himself and yelled to the gunner who took the last photograph they needed. Drawing the lever to him, the opened throttle caused the engine to roar to life when a whole complement of anti aircraft guns unleashed their deadly bullets upon the little reconnaissance plane.
Tracer bullets and high calibre shots wheezed around the aircraft and ripped holes through the canvas of the biplane, destroying some of the wooden supports that held the upper wing into it's place. A couple of more bullets shot through the fuselage itself but failed to do much damage to the plane's vital components. Yellow bursts erupted from the ground and plumes of smoke rose into the air as the entire southern wing of the city defences erupted in fire to down the reconnaissance plane that tried to slip past them to the home base. Dodging sideways and downwards, Greyhair tumbled the plane downwards into a spiral and then leveled off, nose diving the plane to the ground to escape the bullets and gain almost maximum speed despite the objections of the aft gunner.
With the sudden dive and the revving of the engine to it's maximum power, the little biplane sped forwards fast enough to make the batteries lag behind with their tracers and their heavy bullets, most of them falling of the mark once more by many meters. A couple of lucky shots only pricked the wing tips and the rear of the plane but failed to cause any further damage to the aircraft. Just as the pilot levelled the plane to a neutral course a calibre bullet struck the underside, ripping more than a couple of shreds of canvas that fell to the ground. The yoke suddenly shook wildly and swerved the plane slightly sideways, jolting it from the neutral level it held in the air in a matter of seconds. Struggling with the stick Greyhair brought the plane back on level footing and eased the lever of the engine, calming down the shuddering of the aircraft that he knew would not be much longer worthy of flying.
Explosive rounds boomed beside them but with every second that passed the last murmurs of the defences died down behind the plane. Nervous, Greyhair swallowed, checking the instruments every other second. He glanced sideways and backwards, dreading to see a plume of smoke rise from the undercarriage, a column that never came. With the engine revving even lower, the sounds of the engine were replaced by the silent murmurs of the waves as they crashed to form whirlpools in the midst of an agitated sea. The shake of the yoke died down to a manageable level when the power was almost cut off, the biplane crossing at almost stall speed over the frontline and into the range of the military airfield.
Sweating but somewhat relieved, the pilot glided the plane downwards with ease, the undercarriage gently kissing the earthen runway. He guided the aircraft slowly until he reached the commander's tent, cutting off the engines in the grins of the young mechanics who awaited him with the same military salute. With some difficulty he stepped out of the riddled plane and shook the hands of the commander who awaited him by the tent door with a baffled expression.
“It has been done, commander,” said Greyhair with a smile.
“So I see, judging by the fact that you are alive and smiling.” The commander sighed. “Bring me the pictures, that's all I care about now.”
Reply With Quote
The description was brilliant 
I really got a feel of what was happening.
