Chapter 7
The Night Witches' Roar
A squadron of Soviet women pilots, the 'Night Witches,' take to the skies in outdated biplanes. They sow terror and disruption amongst the German forces with their daring night raids.
The air, thin and sharp with the bite of approaching winter, carried the scent of pine and the distant, metallic tang of fear. Below, the sleeping earth was a canvas of hushed shadows, interrupted only by the scattered, nervous glow of enemy encampments. It was a night for silence, for the rustle of unseen creatures, for the dreams of a world at peace. But tonight, the sky would not be silent. Tonight, it would roar.
We watched from the lip of the treeline, a huddled band of watchers, our breath misting in the frigid air. The young women, no, the girls they were, really, were preparing their steeds. Not steeds of flesh and blood, but of canvas and wood, frail things that defied logic and the brutal physics of war. They were the Night Witches, a name whispered with a mixture of awe and terror by those who had heard them, a name that struck a cold dread into the hearts of the enemy.
I remembered the first time I’d heard of them. A scout, his face gaunt and etched with exhaustion, had spoken of a phantom sound, a terrifying whisper that preceded the storm. He spoke of planes, ancient biplanes, stripped of their armament save for the bombs they carried, flying so low they skimmed the treetops. He spoke of pilots, their faces hidden by goggles and scarves, their movements swift and precise in the suffocating darkness. He spoke of terror.
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