  
         It’s 
        been just six years since the world lost an important, if not one of the 
        most important heroes of WWII. Having passed on July 8, 2013, at the age 
        of 91, Russian pilot Nadezhda Popova, along with about 40 other women—“Night 
        Witches”—were war heroes instrumental in driving the German 
        army out of Russia all the way back to Germany. 
         
             Nadezhda Popova was born on December 27, 
        1921, in Ukraine. At the fledgling age of fifteen and unbeknownst to her 
        parents, Nadezhda joined a pilot club in the Soviet Union, where females 
        accounted for only a quarter of the population. The Economist 
        called her “a wild spirit, easily bored; she loved to tango, foxtrot, 
        sing along to jazz. It made her feel free, which was also why at 15 she 
        had joined a flying club without telling her parents.” 
             It was that “wild spirit” that 
        suited her so well to life as a pilot—especially a pilot in the 
        588th Night Bomber regiment. Initially, Nadezhda was denied enlistment, 
        as all women were in Moscow. “No one in the armed services wanted 
        to give women the freedom to die,” she told Albert Axell, the author 
        of Russia’s Heroes: 1941-45 (2001). But on Wednesday, October 8, 
        1941, an order was issued to deploy three regiments of female pilots, 
        and the Nachthexen, the “Night Witches,” were born. 
              So 
        called by the Germans because of the whistling, whooshing susurrus sound 
        that ushered from their plywood and canvas, two-seater, open-air Po-2 
        biplanes—like a witch’s broomstick cleaving the air—the 
        “Night Witches” completed 30,000 missions over a scant 4 years—on 
        Nadezhda’s busiest night, she performed 18 sorties in a single evening. 
         
             At only 19 or 20 years old—a young 
        woman by any definition—Nadezhda’s piloting prowess was a 
        thing to behold. Flipping her wood-and-fabric cropduster over, she would 
        dive at top speed, flying low over German searchlights, dancing her plane 
        (remember, her love of dance!) in a tango tease to attract the lights 
        while a second plane sneaked up quietly behind to drop bombs. The pilots 
        would then trade places and the decoy dance would begin again, this time 
        with Nadezhda dropping her payload.  
         
      High & 
        Mighty Moments Of Terror 
         
             Flying a Po-2 was not an effortless task. 
        Made with the same simple stuff one would use to make an easel—so 
        as to be invisible to radars—the Po-2 whistled perhaps a bit too 
        easily through the air; the open cockpits left the women exposed to the 
        elements, the instruments of the plane and their faces either soaked in 
        the rain or freezing in the bitter night air. There were no parachutes, 
        no radio, no radar or guns—no real hope for survival if one were 
        shot. And getting shot was like putting paper through a shredder, the 
        wings reduced to tattered confetti, the whole plane alighting like magician’s 
        flash paper. 
       
         Mad 
        Love 
         
             And yet, Nadezhda loved every minute of 
        it. While they weren’t outfitted to be comfortable, Po-2s were incredibly 
        fun to fly—highly maneuverable and stable, easy to pull out of a 
        spin, and with a lower maximum speed than the German Messershmitts’ 
        stall speed, which made them more difficult to shoot down. As The 
        Economist reported, “Walking towards a plane, every time, [Nadezhda] 
        would get a knot in her stomach; every time she took off, she was thrilled 
        all over again.” 
      
            We forget, sometimes, 
        the humanity that must perform these inhuman acts; we have the habit of 
        conflating people with their actions. We see the 8-meter-long fuselage, 
        but forget the body that controls it; we remember the whispering wings 
        as they pass overhead, but forget the clenched hands gripping the handles. 
         
      
         
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          At the end of the day, Nadia 
        (as she was called) was also a young girl. Despite leading 852 sorties 
        during the war; despite sporting hair that had been lopped off (as was 
        standard), and donning hand-me-down men’s flight jackets, boots, 
        and overlarge pants, Nadia “kept a white silk blouse and a long 
        blue silk scarf, in case she had to make a really feminine impression,” 
        reported The Economist. She wore a delicate beetle brooch on 
        her uniform as a good luck charm.  
           As lead pilot in a sortie, she lost eight very good friends 
        in a hail of Messerschmitt fire—this, after losing her brother, 
        Leonid, in the first month of the war. She herself was shot out of the 
        sky a number of times. She endured the male military that mocked the “skirt 
        regiment”—she even fell in love, despite the horror of it 
        all, with a male fighter pilot. She read him poetry and after the war, 
        they married. All of this, while also dropping 23,000 tons of bombs on 
        the German army.  
               Late 
        in 1942, flying so low she could hear the cheers of the Russian marines 
        and see the faces of the German soldiers lit up by the fire of their weapons, 
        Nadia dropped medicine, water, and food for the men trapped at Malaya 
        Zemlya. When she returned home, she found her plane riddled with 42 bullets—bullets 
        that also, frighteningly, pierced her map and helmet. 
             After the war, Nadezhda Popova was awarded 
        the nation’s highest honor: Hero of the Soviet Union; she also received 
        the Order of Lenin, the Order of Friendship, and three Orders of the Patriotic 
        War.  
             As Summer 2019 rolls along, we’d like 
        to take a moment to remember Nadezhda (Nadia) Popova: pilot, savior, warrior, 
        and woman. 
        Flossie Arend  |