Читать книгу The Memories of Dead Pilot - Yuriy Sobeshchakov - Страница 3

Yelizovo Airport on the Kamchatka Peninsula met me with a warm wind and drizzle. With October drawing to a close, frosts were already reported elsewhere in the middle latitudes of Russia – but here on the peninsula there were still leaves on the trees, though only yellow and red. Visible across the contrails flowing off the wing of the IL-62 commercial liner, birds that had not yet departed for the south flocked low in the sky, perfecting their formation flight skills. It seemed a fitting introduction to my first posting immediately after graduating from the Navy’s Aviation College. I hoped I would soon be up there with the birds, doing what I was destined to do: fly. They, like me, are preparing for a long journey.

The thought of the birds preoccupied my musings as I walked along the pedestrian walkway from the airport building to the headquarters of my new squadron.

The officer on duty, a grimy captain, giant of a man, met me in the hall of the one-story fifties-era building and accompanied me to the reception room of the commander of the rocket carrier squadron. Behind a worn but sturdy oak desk sat a young and quite beautiful sergeant. Dressed in a cream blouse, a black necktie and a black skirt, she seemed somehow out of place in this remote station. Yet, visible in the space between the two columns of the desk her slender legs, crossed provocatively, offered up a most unexpected welcome. The officer accompanying me exchanged a few words with her, none of which I paid the slightest attention to as my thoughts were on the hemline of her skirt. Heeding my hungry gaze she lifted the telephone receiver and then, giving me inglorious look in return, reported my arrival to the commander.

The captain nudged me with his elbow and whispered, “Don’t get your hopes too high. She has bigger fish to fry, if you get my drift…”

The girl hung up the phone, silently nodded us toward the commander’s door, drumming her slender fingers on the keys of her typewriter.

From the commander’s office I came out as a co-pilot of Commander Major Gribov’s crew. The co-pilot of an old rocket carrier, an outdated TU-16, with God knows what designation. But nobody had offered me anything better. I spent four long years flying in this position, whiling away my bachelor existence in wild drinking bouts with my coworkers and love adventures with the garrison beauties. Unfortunately, there were no commander’s secretaries among them. It was rumored that the girl was not merely an excellent typist, but had many other talents as well.

I could have flown as a co-pilot another three or four years, but my commander had served in this garrison too long, and no longer considered it necessary to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. Assuming that he had the right to say whatever he felt like, he provoked a scandal with his bravado. It gave me the opportunity to get away from the fatal triangle of the card table, strangers’ beds, and bar counters.

It happened that during a typical drinking bout Major Gribov told his friends a harmless anecdote, which was essentially an account of a conversation between the Secretary of the Communist party organization and the priest of a nearby church.

“Father,” said the party organizer, “let me have some chairs for the communists. Tomorrow I have a meeting about the plan.”

“I won’t give you any,” answered the priest. “The last time, they carved indecent expressions on them with their pocket knives."

“Well, then, I won’t be sending you any more pioneers to sing in the church choir,” answered the party organizer.

“Then I won’t send you any monks for Saturday volunteer work,” the priest parried.

“Then I won’t give you any members of the Young Communist League for the procession of the cross.” As a true communist, the party organizer refused to give in.

But the priest had an ace up his sleeve.

“Then there won’t be any more nuns for the sauna.”

The party organizer fell silent for a moment, and then barked into the telephone:

“For such words, Father, you are going to have to surrender your party membership card.”

We laughed heartily at the joke, but in a few days the good major became the object of a serious investigation by our Party Committee. Who wrote the denunciation I was unable to ascertain. I was not a party member and so the suspicions of my coworkers passed me by. The unlucky comic was excluded from the party by a majority vote, and then after a time, as was to be expected, he was removed from his post.

The next day I was summoned for an interview with the squadron commander. The fact that the entire staff of our squadron had gathered in his office was a surprise to me. I stood opposite the commander’s desk, in the middle of his heavily-worn rug, and began to ponder. Why is such a pompous meeting being held in my honor?

The chief of staff asked me several questions about my biography, and checked my answers against the data contained in my personnel file. It was as if he were trying to convince himself that I was indeed the man I put myself forward as being. And if I am not that man, then did I have my cover story down pat. Apparently my answers coincided with what was written in the red file folder, because, after closing it with a smirk, he put this secret document on the desk in front of the commander.

The squadron commander lowered both hands to the file, concealing the coat of arms of the Soviet Union, which was embossed on the top. He glanced over all his assistants and deputies who were ranged against the walls, sighed deeply, and said:

“Well, then, Popov, your time has come. The Motherland in my person and the Party in the person of the deputy commander of political affairs have decided to entrust you with the position of rocket carrier commander.” The highbrow words, cheesy as they were, caused a lump of pride to rise in my throat. Even my shoulders straightened involuntarily. Apparently oblivious to my newfound reaction to praise he continued on… “However, we do have a few unresolved issues with you.”

The lump formed of pride was replaced by an urge to gag as I waited for the hammer to fall.

“You must promise me that you will carry out the following conditions: first, you must enroll in the communist party; second, you must marry; and third, but not the least in importance, you must curtail your drinking.”

Somehow, the hammer stayed aloft and in the space of a breath I managed to process the demands. First, if the Party was blind enough to have the likes of me, fine. Marriage, how tough can it be? And drinking, well that is a problem. Vodka has always been a good friend. But friends come and go, right? I sighed with relief and perhaps too quickly, signed the papers pushed my way across the desk. In essence, I had just promised to fulfill all three conditions – within the next six months.